Red Shoes shrugged. “The old men tell me we turned to the French in the first place to get guns to protect ourselves from the Carolina slavers and their Chickasaw allies. The French have been our friends, and they still are.”
“Then—”
“But the French have also been the friends of the Natchez, and yet you yourself, Governor, have led troops against them.”
“Choctaw troops in part, I seem to remember.”
“Exactly, Governor Bienville. Do you think that we are like children, that we see only what you want? The French are our friends because it suits them to be, because it is to their advantage. The Choctaw, likewise, ally with the French because you help us against our enemies. That is honest. But when you set grass fires, you must watch for a shift in the wind.”
“Then you cultivate no secret alliance with the English?”
Red Shoes grinned broadly. “I? No. But if the day comes that we must, I will be there to do so.”
“I see. What if the day should come that the French cannot provide you with trade goods as cheaply as the English?”
“Governor, we have seen no goods from France or England in several years now. We should like new muskets, powder, shot—wherever it may come from. We will negotiate with whoever has it, I think.”
“You are an honest man,” Bienville said.
“I have heard you are, as well,” Red Shoes answered. “You are still respected among my folk, and I do you the honor that my uncle would have.”
“In that case, my friend, I fear I must ask you a favor.”
“I must hear the favor, of course.”
“Of course.” Bienville chewed his lip for a moment, and then drew his musket from its place at his saddle and laid it across his lap. “It may come too late, for I have seen you much with Nairne, who was an English spy during the last war.”
“He visited my folk, if that’s what you mean.”
Bienville nodded absently. “Everything that I’ve said in the meetings is true. I do have ships, and my oaths concerning the voyage are good. But I have not told them the condition of Louisiana.”
“Ah.”
“Red Shoes, have you told them that we are dying? That there are scarcely a thousand Frenchmen and -women left in the colony?”
“I have not mentioned it.”
“I beg you, do not speak of it. They must believe me strong. They must believe I allow them to crew my ships because of my goodwill, not because I cannot do it. Otherwise …”
“You think they will turn on you?”
“I do. Or they will turn the expedition to their own ends. I have agreed that we will visit England first, but I must be able to insist on a visit to France, you understand? I must renew trade, or else all my people will die—and your own be without goods, as you say.”
“And if I make you this gift?”
“I know your people are fond of trading gifts,” Bienville said. “I will give you this in return.”
He reached into his holster and pulled out something that looked much like a pistol, save that its shaft was coal-black iron, solid and drawn to a point. He handed it to Red Shoes.
He took the weapon, feeling the ornately carved ivory of the grip. “A kraftpistole,” he breathed.
“It is yours,” Bienville said.
Red Shoes raised the deadly weapon and pointed it at the ruggedly laced trunk of an elm. “How many charges remain?”
“Twelve.”
Red Shoes held the weapon for a moment longer, and then reluctantly proffered it back to Bienville.
“I had no plans to tell the English how poorly the French fare,” he replied. “It is better for the Choctaw if the English think we have strong allies, not sickly, dying ones. So you need not present me with a gift.”
Bienville’s hard face softened somewhat, and he nodded. “Then I give it to you in hope that it may begin the two of us on a path to friendship.”
“Well,” Red Shoes said, admiring the kraftpistole once more, “on those terms, I will accept it. May we walk a white path together.”
“Thank you,” the Frenchman said. “And now, I think if I am not mistaken, those are the droppings of a deer.”
Red Shoes looked down, saw the spoor. “Indeed,” he replied. “And so shall we hunt now, or is our business not done?”
“Hunt, I think,” Bienville replied, and together, they continued into the forest.
Red Shoes found it difficult to concentrate on eating, with Mather watching him. There was something about the man—quite apart from his words and appearance—that he found troubling. Part of this was the rude use he made of his eyes, but that was a common trait of most white people. It was as if they spoke with glances, the many words they uttered no more than a noise to accompany a battle of wills. Choctaw engaged in such combat, too, but not when discussing the flavor of food or the color of the sky—only when insult was intended or a lie was suspected, or before a fight to the death. For the white people, each exchange of pleasantries seemed a contest that must produce a winner and a loser.
But Red Shoes had grown accustomed to that peculiarity, and this was not what disturbed him about Mather.
“I’ve asked you here to speak on certain matters,” the preacher said after a time.
“I guessed as much.”
“It concerns this ‘science’ you speak of, by which your people might know your fate. Did you speak truly, or was that a tactic to protect your person? If it was the latter, I assure you no such pretense is needed.”
“It was the truth.”
“Might I inquire how this ‘science’ operates?”
“You might,” Red Shoes answered, “but I cannot answer.”
The wrinkles about Mather’s eyes tightened. “I wonder if you can tell me if it involves the invisible world.”
Red Shoes did meet Mather’s gaze then. “You must explain what you mean by that.”
“The invisible world. The miles of dark air, the evil angels which dwell therein, the angels of light, so distant from us.”
Red Shoes could feel the man’s eyes, measuring him. “Go on,” he said.
“My father and I have long ministered to your people—”
“You have been among the Choctaw?”
“I mean among the Indians native to Massachusetts.”
“Ah. Then you do not mean my people.”
Mather frowned. “I shall not quibble with you, sir. Hereabouts, many of the natives have been brought to see the clear light, to acknowledge Jesus Christ as their savior, and to forswear their ancient, evil ways. Many of them admit to me that their powawes make use of the invisible world against their enemies. To be plain, they have summoned unclean spirits, evil angels, to do their bidding.”
Red Shoes pursed his lips. “You speak of Hattak Hohlkunna. Of—” He struggled for an English word.“—witches.”
Mather raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Every folk has them. Even in my own country, in Massachusetts, a conspiracy of devils threatened the domain of our Lord. So I do not say that I single your folk out. But you do admit that such evil persons exist.”
“Of course.”
“And what is your opinion of such persons?”
“We kill them when they are discovered.”
“Why?”
“Because they are our enemies. They are accursed, living only to cause harm. Why should we tolerate such as they?”
“Why indeed?” Mather pressed. “And yet, you admit to not being a Christian.”
“I am not a Christian, it is true.”
“Then I fail to understand your position.”
Red Shoes now stared openly at the man. “They bring disease, cause misfortune, murder people, lead us down black trails. We do not care for this. What do you not understand?”
Mather returned his stare. The conversation was clearly not going as the white man had expected.
“And yet you yourself claim to have some commerce with this invisible world.”
“Do I? I di
d not say so.”
“You imply it.”
“Perhaps. Tell me, Reverend, do not you? Is not your god a part of that world? Is he not a holy ghost?”
Now the preacher’s eyes lit, and a certain satisfaction came to his face. “Indeed. I have seen proof of witches—I have performed scientific experiments that confirm their existence and their nature—and I find comfort in discovering this evil, for it proves to me also that good exists. But what I must make you understand is that as a heathen, you cannot possibly know the difference between a good spirit and a bad. If good angels claim to serve you, then they are liars. They are devils in disguise, for good spirits will not minister to your sort.”
“My sort?”
“Have you never wondered how your people came to be here, in this America, so far from the rest of humanity?”
“I know how we came to be here.”
“You have legends, I am certain. But how can your history be reliable, when it was taught you by the devil?”
“I no longer follow you,” Red Shoes admitted, trying to keep anger from sharpening his tone.
“Scholars have long pondered your existence on these shores—”
“And we are much gratified by that interest,” Red Shoes assured him.
The preacher glared briefly before going on. “It seems clear that Lucifer showed you the way to these lands that he might have whole continents of damned men and women. Those same powawes I have converted admit as much, and admit as well that their dark lord is angered by the presence of Jesus in these colonies. Do you deny that your people have used their familiar spirits to sicken my people, to try and drive them away?”
“Yes, I deny it. Though I suppose some witches might have directed their ire toward you.”
“And yet you yourself speak of being ‘rid’ of us.”
“Yes. With the war club and bow, not by communion with the accursed beings.”
“But I remind you, you seem to admit to having familiars yourself.”
“Not as witches do.”
The preacher banged his fist upon the table. “If you are served by spirits at all, I tell you that they are devils, though you may not know it.”
“And these witches who infested your Massachusetts. Were they Christians? Why could they not tell the good spirit from the bad?”
“An excellent question. Some sought the Black One on purpose, for their hearts were evil. Others were fooled, but that only strengthens my contention, you see? Even those who strive to keep the covenant can be fooled. How much more so your own people?”
“I assure you, sir, that I well know the difference between an accursed being and the powers that serve me.”
“Will you allow me to examine you? To prove this is so? Will you listen to my words about Jesus, and take the first steps toward the covenant of grace?”
Red Shoes grinned. “You may speak as you wish, and I will listen. I promise nothing, however.”
“I cannot allow you to accompany us on this quest if I consider that you might be a warlock. This is to be a Christian undertaking, and it is already compromised by the Popish French, who are closer to the devil in some ways than any heathen. Indeed, it has been shown that Indian sorcerers and French ones conspire against us from the wilderness.”
“I know nothing of that,” Red Shoes said.
“I cannot trust it. Will you accept conversion?”
“I will not, nor will your word keep me from this expedition, I believe. Governor Bienville or Teach will take me on their ships.”
“I will argue against it.”
“And you will fail. I do not say this to anger you. I know your concerns, and I would not keep company with someone I thought a witch. Nevertheless, you must.”
Mather simmered over that quietly for a few moments. “I have more influence than you might think.”
“Do you? Since I have been in Philadelphia these past months, I have heard some talk of you, and of those witches in Massachusetts. Many now believe that you were party to the murder of many innocents.”
Mather hesitated. “Much of that is slander,” he whispered, for the first time seeming unsure of himself. “But it may be true that some died innocent. I was not a judge, and at the time I spoke against much of the evidence presented—most especially the spectral evidence—but in vain. Yet it is clear from all indications that the devil came into Salem. Few doubt that.”
“I think that many doubt it, to be blunt.”
“They will not doubt a man of God speaking of a savage.”
“They will doubt you about this savage, in these times. They fear my people, and they fear our alliance with the French.”
Mather bowed his head down to the table, and began muttering in that way that Red Shoes understood to be praying. He waited quietly, picking at what remained of his food.
Finally Mather looked up, and Red Shoes met his gaze, in the white man’s way. “Will you at least let me assure myself? Perform the simplest examinations? Can you read?”
“Yes, some.”
“Will you read the commandments, aloud?”
“Yes.”
“And the Lord’s Prayer?”
“Yes.”
Mather nodded grimly, somehow triumphantly, and a sudden dart of unease pricked Red Shoes, making him wonder suddenly just how wise he had been.
4.
Peter Frisk
Ben reached for his aegis key, but in the same instant Robert crashed into him, knocking him from his feet. Ben cursed as his elbow crunched against the hard stone, but Robert was a blur of continued motion, the gleam of his rapier arcing up to meet the newcomer who had just emerged from the alley.
“Hold, fellow,” the man shouted. “Mark that my muzzle confronts your pursuers, not you.”
Indeed, the pistol was pointed over Ben and to the right of Robert.
“Draw your swords, both, and we shall deal with these,” he went on.
Robert, always quickest in such situations, had already turned to face their pursuers, albeit with one wary eye on their new comrade. Ben scrambled to his feet, clumsily drawing his own blade, still swearing at Robert’s misguided attempt to protect him. The steel felt ungainly in his hand. Robert had shown him a few passes, but Ben had not managed to work up much enthusiasm for swordplay. No matter; his other hand now clutched the aegis key, poised to activate his magical cloak.
He waited because the five men following had halted, some twenty paces away, indecisive in the face of the pistol. They were a dour, dark bunch, mostly quite large men. All bore swords, and several seemed to have sidearms, though only one held his drawn: a man with piercing blue eyes, smaller than the others.
“You’ll find no easy prey here, carrion crows,” their seeming ally shouted at the men. Though Ben was still new to the German language, it seemed that the fellow had an odd accent. He wore some sort of military uniform, but not one that Ben could identify as belonging to the empire.
“We’ve no business with you,” the small man yelled back. “Only with these two.”
“Then you have business indeed with me as well,” the man shouted.
Ben straightened. “What call have you to accost us?” he shouted at the five. “I recognize not a man jack among you, and so don’t think I have wronged you. If we have given you offense, then lay it at our feet so we can know what we are charged with. Otherwise be off with you.” He gritted his teeth at the pain in his arm, hoping his sword was held in a way that conveyed at least some competence.
“You mistake us, sir,” the blue-eyed man said, edging a bit closer. “Our intention was never to assault you but to speak with you on a certain matter.”
One of the other men grunted a word in what Ben was now absolutely certain was Russian. The small man snapped back in the same language.
“You know who I am, I gather?” Ben called.
“Indeed, sir. You are Benjamin Franklin, apprentice to Sir Isaac Newton.”
“Then you may know as well that I am under
the emperor’s protection.”
“Of course. But as I said, this show of steel and pistol is unwarranted. I only wished to state a proposition.”
“State it, then.”
“I had hoped for a more—private—venue.”
“I am quite sure you did,” Ben replied. “But if you will not speak, then I cannot help you.”
“I would prefer—”
“Come and see me at the castle,” Ben interrupted. “I extend you an invitation. At the moment we are in something of a hurry.”
The small man regarded him for a moment, and then bowed. “Very well. I apologize. I saw you in the tavern and thought to take advantage of my good fortune, but I see I have overstepped the bounds of politeness. I will present my offer another time.”
“And I will be happy to hear it, I am certain,” Ben replied.
The man bowed again, and with an air of reluctance, the five turned and went back the way they had come. Ben noted that neither Robert nor their benefactor allowed their weapons to waver until the Muscovites were well out of sight.
“Now, then,” the newcomer said, finally returning his weapon to its proper place at his belt. Robert’s rapier lingered in the air for a second or two longer, and then hissed back into its scabbard.
“I would not believe them, if I were you,” the man advised. “I heard them in the tavern. Their plan was to take you hostage.”
Ben looked the fellow over. He was a year or two one side of forty, with sea-gray eyes peering over a regally arched nose, lips tight with a sort of grim humor. A battered tricorn jutted over a high, balding forehead. He exuded the sort of competence that Robert did, but more so, giving the impression that he could have easily dealt with all five men.
“You’ve done us a damn good turn,” Ben said, sticking out his hand. “I’m Benjamin Franklin, and greatly grateful to you.”
“Yes, so I heard them call you,” the man replied. “My name is Peter Frisk.”
“Pleased to meet you, Peter Frisk,” Ben replied, as they shook hands.
“And me,” Robert added, taking Frisk’s hand next. “And might I suggest that we move along? Rats’ll scurry away, but they always come back f’r the cheese.”
A Calculus of Angels Page 5
