Shadowbrook

by Swerling, Beverly

  “I am not a child, Uko Nyakwai. And I do not mistake nuts for a squirrel.” The Ottawa’s head barely reached Quent’s chin, but his shoulders were as wide as a bull’s, and the muscles in his chest and his arms rippled when he moved. No one came armed to a talking fire like this one, but Pontiac had used his knife to cut the meat of the earlier feast. It was stuck in the ground at his feet. He bent and retrieved it.

  “I smoked the calumet with Recumsah,” Quent said quietly. “I cannot now fight with you over the same wrong.”

  “I was not at the ceremony and you did not smoke with me.” Pontiac reached up and yanked the turtle amulet from around Quent’s neck and flung it on the ground.

  Quent had no choice now. He’d have to fight Pontiac. If he killed him, Recumsah would howl with rage and declare Quent an enemy of all the Ottawa. It was unthinkable. “I have no quarrel with you, Pontiac, son of the brother of Recumsah. Pick up the amulet and return it to me and we will put this moment on the fire and turn it to smoke.”

  “I have a quarrel with you, Uko Nyakwai. You do not stink like a white man, but you cannot escape your white skin. What’s worse, you are English. Your kind wants more than the hearts and bodies of the Anishinabeg, more than our hunting skill to feed your endless hunger for skins. The English want our land and that is our soul. One less of you will be a good thing.”

  Quent reached behind and palmed the dirk. He felt Cormac’s eyes on him and knew Corm was tensed and ready. No one would interfere with the fight until after Pontiac was dead. Then they would be furious because the visiting Ottawa had died at a Shawnee fire during a time of peace, and the Shawnee would have to pay huge reparations to Recumsah’s clan in apology. As soon as that realization sank in, the Shawnee would be blind with rage and a free-for-all would begin. It would be the sixteen braves against him and Corm. Their long guns were stacked with all the other weapons some ten strides to their left. The girl was twenty strides in the opposite direction, surrounded by Shawnee squaws who could be as fierce as the braves when the need arose. Sweet Christ, what a mess.

  Pontiac lunged at him. Quent feinted. He brought the dirk up in his clenched fist and the tip grazed the Indian’s shoulder and drew blood.

  “Stop!” The voice of the brave called Teconsala was not loud, but all heard it. “Stop,” he said again, and Quent and Pontiac backed a few steps away from each other. Neither man was breathing hard, but blood trickled down Pontiac’s naked torso from the wound on his right shoulder.

  “This is a fire of summer peace and none here have any quarrel with Pontiac or Uko Nyakwai,” Teconsala said. “You will settle your differences in another time and place. Not here.”

  Teconsala was not a full chief, but he was the senior brave present at the camp. And apparently the coolest head. The others nodded and murmured agreement. The pleasure of watching a death fight between two such warriors had to be weighed against the size of the reparations required if Pontiac should be the one killed. Teconsala gave good counsel.

  “I have lost blood,” Pontiac said, gesturing toward his shoulder. “I am due payment.”

  “This is true.” Teconsala looked at the white man whom the Potawatomi had adopted. Let us see if your courage is really that of the bear they call you, man of the red hair. “Pontiac is entitled to one cut in return. It can be anywhere he chooses.” He could have restricted the area for the vengeance cut, said it must not be a death thrust or a cut that took away Uko Nyakwai’s manhood. He had set no such limit. Now the Red Bear was wholly at Pontiac’s mercy. “You agree, Uko Nyakwai?”

  “Teconsala speaks fairly and with wisdom. I agree.” Quent opened his hand and let the dirk fall to the ground. He stood where he was with his legs spread, arms hanging loose at his side, and stared straight ahead.

  Pontiac took a step toward him. His knife was a honed piece of flint, and it was sharpened to an edge that could slice easily through aged leather. He held it in his right hand to show that he cared nothing for the pain of the wound in his shoulder. Pontiac aimed his weapon at Quent’s heart.

  Quent looked past the Indian into the fire. He opened himself and allowed his spirit to leave his body and fly far. In his head he sang the death song he had composed as a boy, under the guidance of Bishkek, his manhood father, the old brave who had helped him become a Potawatomi and a man. Whiteness. Snow covering the earth. A spirit soaring free.

  Pontiac waited, studying Red Bear’s face, trying to engage his eyes but failing. The only sound was the crackling of burning logs.

  Pontiac did not strike. He dropped his knife until it no longer pointed at his enemy’s heart but at his groin.

  Castration. A fitting punishment for a man who could not protect his Ottawa squaw and allowed the Huron to defile her. Quent did not move. Whiteness and a free spirit.

  Pontiac shifted his weight forward and slashed. At the last second he moved the blade so it merely grazed the hard muscled flesh of Quent’s side. Deep enough to draw blood, but nothing more. Pontiac wiped the flint on his wounded shoulder, signifying that he was repaid for the loss of his own blood, then sheathed it at his waist. He bent down and retrieved the turtle amulet and the dirk and handed both to Quent. “These are yours, Uko Nyakwai. I heard your death song as it was in the air between us. It was a good song, like the softest snow is good. Perhaps I will kill you one day to avenge Shoshanaya, but not here and not like this.”

  Quent drew a long deep breath and slowly, with pain, his spirit returned to his body.

  The others watched and waited, knowing that Uko Nyakwai had faced certain death and that he must be given time to recover. After a few seconds a shudder passed through him. Teconsala saw and nodded to the drummers and the dancing began.

  The feet of the men shuffled slowly at first, then the beat of the drums became faster and the dance quickened. A singer, a young boy, added his voice and at various times the braves sang with him. Quent sang too. The beat of the drums entered his blood, making his heart beat with their rhythm.

  The squaws got to their feet and began to sway in time to the music and the dance. Torayana pulled Nicole up beside her. “It is a mark of disrespect to stay on the ground when the dance begins. Now,” she whispered urgently, “you must choose.”

  “What do you mean? I—”

  “Who will you have, a Shawnee brave or one of the two you came with? If you do not choose, it means you will accept only a chief. Tonight that would mean you belonged to Teconsala. Or if he wanted, he could give you as a gift to Pontiac. By not choosing for yourself you will give him that right.”

  The dance was a whir of speed now and the singing was a high-pitched frenzy that to Nicole sounded only like a wail. “You are mad. I will not lie with any man. I have made a vow.”

  Torayana’s dark eyes widened. “You are a virgin. Ayee! What a prize!”

  Nicole tried to duck back into the protection of the wigwam, but Torayana grabbed her arm and held it so tightly she could not get away. “No! That means only that you invite Teconsala.”

  Quent saw the scuffle from the corner of his eye, but he didn’t focus on what it might mean. His entire being was one with the music and the dance. His life had been returned to him and his body sang with the joy and the desire and the need of the drums. The first time he’d danced he’d been thirteen years old, newly made a Potawatomi man because he had earned the right. That time he’d been embarrassed by the reaction the drums and the dance produced until he saw that all the dancing braves had the same response. And in moments a squaw had chosen him—an older woman whose breasts sagged and who had few teeth. She led him away to the woods and squatted for him, showing him how to mount her from the rear. He’d lost his virginity in a howl of excitement and triumph. Next time, she’d told him, he could have a young and beautiful squaw, and not shame himself by not knowing what to do.

  The first of the squaws to break from the cluster of women in front of the Shawnee wigwam went to Pontiac and touched his shoulder. He followed her into the woods. />
  “Quick,” Torayana whispered, “if you want Uko Nyakwai choose now. Otherwise one of the others will pick him.” Her advice came too late. One of the squaws, the youngest and prettiest of them, darted forward and touched Quent’s shoulder. He followed her into the trees without once looking back toward Nicole.

  Torayana saw the terrified look on the white girl’s face. She waited a second or two more until Cormac was in their direct line of sight, then gave Nicole a huge shove toward him. The girl stumbled into Cormac’s dancing body. He grabbed her to keep her from falling, then picked her up and carried her away.

  Chapter Six

  MONDAY, JUNE 29, 1754

  THE OHIO COUNTRY

  THE SEVEN MEN sat in a circle in a clearing hard by a small trading post known as Gist’s Settlement. Washington and his civilian quartermaster, an Irishman transplanted to Virginia named George Croghan, were the only whites. The others were Tanaghrisson the Half King, a Delaware, two Mingo, and a Shawnee. According to Tanaghrisson, they were all war chiefs. So far they hadn’t shown any stomach for the fight Washington urged.

  The Virginian’s foothold in the territory, the fort he’d erected on Great Meadows, was six leagues east. He’d left a hundred troops behind to guard it. The French were twelve leagues west at Fort Duquesne.

  If he turned his head Washington could see the three hundred militiamen he’d brought with him. They were strung out in clumps of twenty or so, each working party with a distinct job: felling trees, hauling them out of the way, leveling the path, beating the raw earth into some semblance of a surface hard enough not to ensnare the broad wooden wheels of their transport. It was slogging, backbreaking, thankless work, and the men cursed and sweat and stank their way through it. All with one aim, to complete the road that would take them the rest of the way to the French fort. They had been about that same task for two weeks of hard days and exhausted nights with never enough time to sleep, inching through the forest with their supply wagons and their big swivel guns. Never mind, Washington told himself, success was assured. The men would thank him for it in the end and they would thank Almighty God they’d been privileged to serve with George Washington. There was glory in him; he could feel it in his bones. Bloody damn, he could taste it. But right now he needed to concentrate on the Indians.

  Bloody savages all of them, and Tanaghrisson the worst. An animal who washed his hands in another man’s brains. In Christ’s name … Best not to think about it. Nearly a month now and no repercussions. No surprise from anyone when he reported that the Virginian musketry killed ten that day, including Jumonville, and afterwards the Indians scalped the dead. Everyone knows they do that. As for the French prisoners, they’re spies and lie about everything. Any right-thinking person would take the word of George Washington of Virginia over a lying Frenchman. Put it out of mind Concentrate on what’s happening right now. Tanaghrisson is right; it won’t hurt to have the hatchets of these savages and their warriors on our side. Put the fear of the Almighty in the French. But God help me, it’s a strange business to listen to a painted savage go on for over a quarter of an hour and not understand a word he’s saying.

  Tishcohantin, the Delaware, was doing most of the talking, pacing back and forth in the middle of the circle holding a string of wampum in his left hand. Croghan said they did that to give their words weight; the number of times the speaker twisted the wampum around his wrist indicated the importance of what he had to say. Also, at least according to the Irishman, the reason the Delaware had that squirrelskin tobacco bag with the pipe sticking out hanging around his neck was to show himself a man of peace. Peace be damned. Not now. Not yet. Peace has to be earned. And you, you blighted heathen, had best say soon if you’re for us or against us. I shan’t tolerate that icy stare much longer.

  Tishcohantin of the Lenape—whom the whites, the Cmokmanuk, called Delaware—had made four loops of wampum around his left wrist. Now he spoke slowly, with no outward emotion, and his steady gaze never left the face of the young Virginian. “Last winter I warned your people, and the winter before that. Still you English did nothing. For two winters Onontio has come and built his forts in this valley, and you did not listen when I told you what that meant. Now, after you have spent the strength of your warriors coming to this place and divided your forces, three hundred of them here and another hundred left back at your new fort …” Tishcohantin looked at Croghan, then at Tanaghrisson.

  Those two understand my words, but not this young one who is supposed to be the leader, the war sachem. No matter. The others will tell him I have taken his measure. Four hundred men altogether. They say more are on the way, but if they come—and knowing these English, they may not—where will he put them? That pissing hole he calls Fort Necessity, which is now a hard journey behind him? If he meant to make a stand at Great Meadows he should have stayed there. Getting this far on the way to his enemy has wrecked his wagons, and they and his heavy guns have made bad paths worse. I know every stupid thing he has done and still he wants me to take up the hatchet to fight for the English against the French. Why should I do that? Why should any of us?

  Washington stared back, uncomprehending of anything except the question in the red man’s eyes. He leaned toward Tanaghrisson. “Tell him it is my intention to march on and take Fort Duquesne. Tell him we’ll rout all the French, all Onontio’s soldiers, from this valley. If the Delaware and the others will fight with us, together we will become stronger than before and all can live in peace.”

  Tishcohantin began speaking again, before the snake Half King could say anything. Before the boy who wanted to be a war sachem realized that Tishcohantin the Lenape understood his language, though he refused to speak it. “If you English and the French are going to fight here, this valley will not be safe for our families. We will have to move them to your settlements in the places you call Pennsylvania and Virginia.” He spun around so he was facing the Mingo and the Shawnee. “And what would our women and children be in those places, those white shitholes where men and women separate themselves from the feel and the smell of the world the Great Spirit made and lose touch with all reality? They will be refugees, strangers without respect. And do these English know anything about hospitality? You all know well that they do not.” Tishcohantin paused for the length of one long breath.

  “Once there were Anishinabeg in those places where now only the Cmokmanuk live. It is impossible for Real People and English to live side by side. Little by little they are squeezing the life out of us. They have a sickness these people, a hunger for land. They think they can take possession of the very earth beneath our feet. The French come and trade—sometimes, I admit, they fight and try to kill us—but eventually they go away. The English bring their women and children and they remain. They bring only ruin. Are we to take up the hatchet for them, commit our braves to fight and die, so that afterward they can overrun us? This is a plan without wisdom.”

  The face of the Half King remained impassive, but he read the decision of the others in their eyes. Tishcohantin the Lenape had convinced them. Ayi! Not only would they not fight with Washington, they would most likely take up the hatchet for Onontio, who was not dead after all, however hard he, the mighty Tanaghrisson, had tried to kill him.

  The Half King flicked a quick glance at Croghan, the Irishman. He knew it as well. It was plain on his face. Would he tell Washington? Maybe. Maybe not. But it did not matter whether or not the Virginia sachem knew. It was over. The great plan for removing Onontio from the Ohio Country had failed. Tanaghrisson felt a little shiver deep in his belly, a knowing that was coming to lodge in his gut. It would probably kill him, this knowing. But first he and his would suffer more. May the Great Spirit curse all Cmokmanuk, and forgive us for ever thinking we could live with them in this place.

  “Why do you return alone?” Tanaghrisson’s wife asked. “Where are the soldiers and the others who left with you?”

  “hey are not here.”

  “I can see that. Do you thi
nk something has happened to my eyes?”

  “You have a squirrel’s tongue. Click-clack, click-clack and you say nothing. It makes me tired to listen to you. Get everything ready, we are leaving.”

  “All of us?” Her husband had brought eighty people here, twelve of them braves, the rest women and children and old people.

  “All,” he said.

  “A far distance?”

  Tanaghrisson shrugged and she knew that meant probably yes.

  So. Another journey with cranky children, exhausted elders, no proper cooking fires, and all the other discomforts that went with such treks. At least four of the women with full bellies would have to deliver on the trail, without a proper birthing lodge. Men were stupid, but it was never any different. “Perhaps you will take just the braves,” she urged, “leave the rest of us behind to follow some other time.”

  “I said all. Can you not understand plain speech?”

  Ayi! There was no hope for it now. “Where are we going?”

  He wasn’t sure. Aughwick, Croghan’s trading post, perhaps. Three days’ journey east. Maybe four with the squaws and the children. “When we get there, you will know where we are. Pack.”

  Tanaghrisson turned away and looked at the death trap Washington called Fort Necessity. This little thing on the meadow should have told him he’d made a bad bargain as soon as it was built. The notion of a pact with the English to defeat Onontio and make him, Tanaghrisson, the lord of all the war chiefs in the Ohio Country required batde-seasoned allies. Instead he’d associated himself with a few ill-trained soldiers in a stockade with split-log walls just a little taller than the Virginia sachem himself. The space within it was hardly big enough to shelter some weapons and a few tents. A man could walk the whole circle in forty strides.