Sisson translated once more, then bent his head to hear the whispered response. “My commander says he would be in your debt, monsieur.”
Quent looked to Washington, got the nod, and knelt beside the wounded French Lieutenant. “Have to rip up your jacket to make a tourniquet. Unless of course”—he looked at Sisson—“that young girl I saw a while back would care to contribute a petticoat to the effort.”
“Mademoiselle Nicole is—”
“Is right here, messieurs. And happy to be of assistance.”
Tiny, yes, but older than he’d first thought, eighteen, maybe nineteen. And beautiful, with a few dark curls showing below her mobcap, enormous pansy-colored eyes, and skin like thick cream. Cormac Shea stepped forward when she did, Quent noted, and he didn’t have his long rifle any longer. One of the Virginia soldiers had claimed it along with the rest of the French arms. Now why had Corm Shea allowed a wet-behind-the-ears excuse for a soldier to take away his gun? Because he wasn’t ready to leave the scene of the battle, of course. Or the side of the exquisite little creature Sisson had called Mademoiselle Nicole. Quent looked from her to the other woodsman. For the briefest of moments Cormac looked back. Then they ignored each other.
None of the men ignored Nicole as she stepped out of her petticoat, though it didn’t do them much good. She turned her back to the men and managed to get the thing off without showing so much as a glimpse of ankle. She ripped a strip from the waistband and handed it to Quent. It was still warm from her body. “Will this suit your purpose?”
“Admirably, Mademoiselle.” The pale blue eyes looked her up and down with no attempt to conceal their admiration, then turned to the task he’d set himself.
Jumonville was still trying to stanch the flow of blood from his thigh with his fingers. Quent gently pushed his hand away, then applied the tourniquet, slipping a sturdy twig into the knot. There was full daylight now, and the smoke of the brief battle was entirely gone. No comfort in the feel of the rising sun on the back of his neck, or in the easy victory, though he wasn’t sure why.
Quent raised his head while his hands went on tightening the tourniquet. He could see all the way across the glen to where Tanaghrisson and his dozen warriors waited. Sweet Jesus, something was definitely wrong. He could almost smell their hatred. And their impatience.
The tourniquet was doing its job; The blood had stopped pumping from Jumonville’s thigh. Quent got up. Without moving his head he turned his glance from the Indians to Cormac Shea, still standing beside the woman. Quent could see the scar, a white streak that ran from Cormac’s forehead to his chin and looked like war paint against his tanned skin. Quent again felt his grip on the dirk, then the surge of hot blood spurting over his fingers. They’d been boys, but each in the clutch of a man’s hatred. Twenty years and he could still feel the rage. The eyes of the two men met and held a smoldering glance for perhaps a second. Then both turned away.
“Let’s go over there,” Quent said to Washington. He gestured to the opposite side of the glen from where the Indians were gathered. “We’ll take a look at that letter of yours.” They walked away from Jumonville, over to the Virginia soldiers and the twenty-one French prisoners they’d marshaled into a tight group.
Nicole began tearing what remained of her petticoat into strips that could serve as bandages.
Shea took hold of her arm and tugged her after Hale and Washington. “Pas maintenant,” he said quietly.
“Mais c’est nécessaire. I would like to help the others.”
“Pas maintenant.” Shea was more insistent this time, and he tightened his hold on her arm. Nicole followed him because she had no choice.
Washington was inspecting the letter; he looked up when Shea and the woman reached his side. “Perhaps you can help, Mademoiselle. You are, I suspect, fluent in both French and English. This word”—a long finger tapped the page—“I take it to mean ‘defend’ and so does Mr. Sisson here. But Hale says—”
He never finished the thought. There was a blood-chilling yell and Tanaghrisson and his dozen Mingo braves erupted into the center of the glen, whooping and hollering and swinging their tomahawks above their heads.
Nicole gasped. “No! I cannot believe … What are they doing?”
“Exactly what you’d expect snakes to do,” Quent said softly.
Tanaghrisson and his braves were systematically slaughtering the wounded, then flipping them on their bellies, making a shallow cut from ear to ear across the back of the neck, and peeling off their scalps. There were cries of outrage from the French prisoners. Cormac was silent. So was Quent. Washington was the man in charge. It was up to him.
The young lieutenant colonel opened his mouth, but no sound came. He half-raised one arm but let it fall instantly. The rampaging Iroquois dominated the glen and everyone in it by the sheer force of their blood lust.
By Quent’s reckoning it took less than two minutes for the Indians to massacre and scalp the wounded French soldiers. All except Jumonville.
Tanaghrisson’s bare tattooed chest was spattered with blood, gore, and bits of bone. He stood for a moment in the sunlit glen and lifted his face to the heavens, then went to the French commander and knelt beside him. He raised his tomahawk. “Tu n’es pas encore mort, mon père.” The tomahawk came down and sliced off the top of Jumonville’s head. Tanaghrisson plunged both his hands into the open skull and pulled out the gray matter. Then, standing so that all could see, he rubbed his palms together, washing them in the Frenchman’s brains.
The whooping and screaming began again; the kill hunger of the Mingos still wasn’t satisfied. A brave lopped off what remained of Jumonville’s head and stuck it atop a pole. The others began hacking apart the dead bodies.
The soldiers, French and American, stared in stunned silence at the butchery. Still Washington said nothing. Quent looked for the girl. She had turned away and was retching into the bushes. He flashed another quick look at Cormac, who moved closer to Nicole. Quent took a few steps to his left, placing himself between the unarmed pair and the colonial soldiers.
The boy who had taken Cormac’s long gun had it slung over his shoulder. He had his own musket held at the ready, waiting for a command to fire and put an end to the carnage taking place a few feet away. Washington remained as stiff and as silent as a statue.
Quent reached behind for his tiny dirk, palmed it, and moved closer. One deft stroke of the razor-sharp edge sliced through the long gun’s leather carrying thong. Quent caught the weapon before it hit the ground and tossed it to Cormac. The Canadian snatched it one-handed out of the air. The young soldier felt the loss of his captured prize. He turned his head. “What …”
“Pay attention to your duty, lad,” Quent said sternly. “Colonel Washington, hadn’t you better … ?”
“Yes, yes …” The lieutenant colonel of the Virginia Regiment shuddered, as if he’d been bewitched and only just shaken off the spell. “Stop!” he screamed. “Stop or we’ll open fire!”
Tanaghrisson looked up and saw the eight muskets pointing at him and his braves. He raised his hand. Instantly the Indians stopped their butchery and backed away. The soldiers stepped forward purposefully, as if it were not too late for them to do anything useful.
The two woodsmen slipped silently into the depths of the forest, Nicole between them. The first time she stumbled Quent picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. Then he and Cormac broke into a trot.
It was ten minutes before they came to a clearing and stopped. Quent set the young woman on the ground and turned away without a word. The two men approached each other, clasped their left hands, and held them aloft. “Nekane,” Quent said. The word meant “little brother” in the Potawatomi language.
“Sizé,” Cormac said. Elder brother. “Ahaw nikan.” My spirit greets you.
“Bozho nikan” And mine you.
Nicole, still dazed and shivering with the horror of what she’d witnessed, huddled where Quent had left her, understanding nothing.
Chapter Three
THE OHIO COUNTRY was mostly dense virgin forest, mixed hardwoods and conifers, but the clearing was a small bit of natural upland where the trees had thinned sufficiently to allow dappled sunshine to filter through. Quent and Corm slaked their thirst in the icy water of a rushing stream, then stood ankle deep in daisies and buttercups and let the early morning sun dry the sweat of their run. Nicole was still where Quent had left her, sitting on the ground. Her arms were wrapped around her bent legs, and her face was pressed against her knees.
Quent took a tin canteen from his belt and filled it from the stream, then carried it to the girl. She drank without looking at him and returned the empty canteen without a word of thanks.
“You under an obligation to go back to those colonials?” Cormac asked.
“Not really. Our arrangement’s on a week-by-week basis, and the week ends tomorrow. Besides, Washington’s done what he set out to do. He’ll turn around and head back to the Forks. Tanaghrisson’s sure to send a brave to show them the way.”
“Washington—that the young officer who was in charge?”
“Yes.”
“He appears to need a lot of showing the way.”
“This is his first command. Got some growing up to do, but I reckon he’ll do it fairly soon. The Ohio Country ages green wood pretty fast.” Quent looked more closely at Cormac. “I said I wasn’t obligated to return to him. I’m not, unless … you figure Washington and his farmers will make it back to Great Meadows without any more trouble?”
“None I’m aware of,” Cormac said. “Far as I know, it was exactly what it looked like, a sortie to see what was happening at the Forks and suggest it better be stopped.”
“And that’s not your lookout? You don’t have to report back to anyone?”
Cormac grinned. “I haven’t joined the French army, if that’s what you’re asking. I’ve a duty, but it’s not to them.”
Quent saw Corm glance at the woman. She was still resting her head on her knees. “A duty to her?” he asked.
“Not the way I think you mean. Leave it for now. I’ll explain later.”
Quent nodded agreement. “Fine. So what are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.”
“I thought that might be the case. That’s why I let you know I was close by.” The call of the northern loon had been their private signal since boyhood. “But it doesn’t explain why.”
“Because Miss Lorene asked me to.”
Quent nodded. The great shame in Lorene Devrey Hale’s life had been having her husband bed his Potawatomi squaw under the same roof that sheltered his wife and children. But the way it had worked out, Lorene and the squaw’s son were devoted to each other. He unslung his rifle and began polishing the barrel with his sleeve. “Pity my mother sent you all this way for nothing. I’ve said everything I had to say to John. There’s no need for any further discussion.”
“I wouldn’t have come if it was just about making peace between you and your brother.”
“Ahaw.” Somehow the Potawatomi word for “yes” seemed stronger. “You would. You’d go anywhere and do anything, as long as it was my mother did the asking.”
Cormac shook his head. “John is a vicious fool and he’s set to ruin Shadowbrook. I think that’s something you ought to go back and fix, but it’s not why I’m here.”
Quent shrugged. “My father’s made it clear Shadowbrook’s not my lookout anymore. John’s the eldest. The house, the land, everything goes to him.”
“Quent, listen …”
Cormac’s tone had changed. Quent stopped rubbing the gun’s brass and looked up. “There’s something behind your teeth. You’d best spit it out.”
“Your father’s dying. He’s only got a few more months. That’s why Miss Lorene asked me to find you. She said I was to tell you that afterward you could do as you liked with her blessing, but if you let your father die with the last words between you spoken in rage, she’ll never forgive you. And you’ll never forgive yourself.”
Cormac felt better for saying it. He squatted and began attending to his own rifle, examining the severed carrying strap. Quent walked away and stood at the edge of the clearing, staring into the trees. Every once in a while Cormac lifted his head and examined the other man’s rigid back.
The shade was thicker where Quent stood and the forest floor was a mass of nodding bluebells. There were no bluebells at Shadowbrook; it was too far north. There were plenty of other flowers, though. No place on earth was more beautiful. At least none he’d seen. But for him the land of the lakes would always be haunted by Shoshanaya’s ghost. In the Ohio Country he was free of that, free to be his own man. And in the Ohio Country he wasn’t a slave owner.
“This land be your pa’s land, but it don’t rightly belong to no human being,” Solomon the Barrel Maker told Quentin Hale in 1732 when the boy was nine years old. Solomon had been born to a slave bought by Quentin’s grandfather. He had always been Hale property, and he understood the difference between possession and ownership. “This land belong to God Almighty. It got a lot to teach you. No way you can have learned it all. Not yet.”
The land known as the Hale Patent had been given to Quent’s grandfather back in 1696 by King William and Queen Mary. It comprised a great swathe of upper New York wilderness that had been presented to a minor court functionary originally from the Kentish town of Lewes not because he was a noble or had any particular claim on the crown, but because he was judged foolhardy enough to take his young wife and go live there.
To the south were the Dutch families, people with names like VanSlyke and de Vlackte and Schuyler, who had settled the far reaches of Nieuw Netherland before the English took it from the Dutch in 1664. The fierce Kahniankehaka, who were part of the Iroquois Confederacy and whom the Europeans called the Mohawk lived to the west. North were the hated French. It suited the British to plant on some hundred thousand acres of the wilderness between them a colonist firmly tied to the English crown, and the English tongue, and the English way of doing and being.
By the time Ephraim Hale—born on the Patent his father had named Shadowbrook—came into his inheritance, the land had changed them all. They were English, yes, and certainly loyal to King George II. But by nature and nurture and instinct they were what the land of their birth had made them: Americans, accustomed to living beside people who were different from themselves, and to following their own rules in a place where they need want for nothing.
The Patent was a land of incredible riches, folded between the Adirondack Mountains to the west and Hudson’s River to the east. It was dotted with countless lakes, most small, but a few wide enough so a man needed a day to row from side to side and a week to paddle the full length. There was more hardwood than could be cut for warmth or shelter in a dozen lifetimes. The brooks and streams teemed with fish, and there was every imaginable kind of game in the forests. The presence of the lakes and the river gentled Shadowbrook’s harsh northern climate. Between them was the rich black earth of the rolling lowlands and broad alluvial flats where summer wheat grew tall and thick with seed and barley and rye and corn thrived, as did the tender hops necessary for ale.
At one of its many corners the Hale Patent rolled up to the big lake English-speaking people called Bright Fish Water, a translation of the name given it by the People of the Great River, the Mahicans, who had been scattered by the Kahniankehaka many years before. The French who lived at the distant other end of the lake knew it as the Lac du St. Sacrement. At another place the Patent folded itself around a long, curved sweep of watercourse fed by the rushing brooks and streams of the mountains. It emptied into Hudson’s River which flowed south from Albany to the harbor of New York City.
By the time he was nine the land of Shadowbrook had entered Quent’s blood. Then, on the frozen-in-white December day when he stood with Solomon the Barrel Maker near Tenant Mountain, near the crevasse they called Swallows Chil dren, he saw the first thing in his young lif
e that he neither expected nor understood.
Quent’s father appeared out of the dark shadow of the snow-laden conifers that rimmed the crevasse, a treacherous wedge-shaped split in the earth, seductively narrow at the top edge with a rushing underground river below. Ephraim Hale rode a big brown gelding and a squaw sat behind him. Her arms were wrapped around his waist, and before the riders became aware of Quent and Solomon watching them, her cheek was pressed to his spine.
Ephraim saw his son and reined in his horse. He murmured something to the woman and she straightened. A small gray horse behind them stopped as well. Quent paid it no attention; he was busy examining the squaw. She didn’t look to be either Kahniankehaka or Mahican. She wore leggings made of pure white skins laced tight with white thongs. The skirt of her overdress was white as well, and the thick jacket that covered the top half of her was fashioned of a sleek white fur and had a hood rimmed in long-haired white fur that might be fox, except that Quent had never seen a white fox.
“This here’s my youngest boy, Quentin,” Ephraim Hale said. “Goes by Quent. And that nigra with him, that’s my slave. Goes by Solomon the Barrel Maker.”
The squaw threw back her white fur hood and her black braid fell over her shoulder and shone in the midday sun. Her features were delicate and her black eyes enormous. She said nothing but she smiled at Quent; her teeth gleamed white against her honey-colored skin.
“This is Pohantis,” Ephraim continued. “She’s from Singing Snow, a Potawatomi village a ways north and west of here. She’s come to stay with us for a time.” He half-turned and gestured to the small figure on the gray. “That’s her boy, Cormac Shea. A year younger than you. He’ll be staying with us as well. Never been in these parts before. You can show him the lay of the land.”
Quent looked at the other boy. He wore ordinary fawn-colored buckskins the same as Quent’s. The fur of his jacket—dark brown like the boy’s hair and his eyes—was probably beaver. The surprise was his skin. It was white, the same as his name. Quent felt his father’s eyes watching him. Solomon’s large hand exerted pressure against his back. Quent nodded in the direction of the strange boy. Cormac turned his head away and stared at his mother and Ephraim Hale.
Shadowbrook Page 3
