Shadowbrook

by Swerling, Beverly

  “Who’s Jenzy and what’s jambalaya?” Quent asked.

  Old man Groesbeck was preparing to tap a keg. He paused with the mallet in his hand only long enough to identify the questioner. “Oh, it be you. Should have guessed. Don’t be many folks around here not be knowing Jenzy. She be marrying my boy two years past. Found her down near New Orleans, he did. A jambalaya be what we call a stew. Only it be different when she makes it in the way of her people down there in the French country.”

  “The same but different, is that it?”

  “Ja, pretty much. Got some squirrel pie, too, if you’d rather have that. Jenzy make that my old woman’s way. Or oysters fresh this morning. Six wooden pennies for a dozen. Five if you pay with coppers.”

  Someone called out that he was perishing with thirst and Groesbeck should stop talking and get on with tapping the keg. “Two dozen of the biggest oysters,” Quent said. “And a glass of your best ale to wash them down. I’ll be over there waiting.” He took a seat on the bench that ran along the taproom’s west wall. It gave him a good vantage point for surveying the scene.

  The last time he’d been in here—when he’d brought Nicole because she was desperate for food and drink and a place to sit down out of the sun—it had been later in the day. The taproom had been too crowded for him to identify who was who in the throng. Now he could clearly see a pair of whores drinking at a table at the far end. The trappers with them looked as if they were already too drunk to be able to use the services they were paying for. There were a number of local craftsmen and laborers as well, and four or five tars in their distinctive short jackets and striped shirts and oiled breeches.

  “Two dozen oysters,” the barmaid said as she put the plate in front of him. “Opened ’em meself, I did. Seeing as how they were for Uko Nyakwai. Might open something else if you asked me nicely.”

  Quent laughed and flipped her a wooden shilling and she caught it expertly before it could fall to the sawdust-covered floor. “That one’s for old man Groesbeck. There’s another meant just for you if you tell me if you’ve seen any strangers around here in the past week or two.”

  “Always be strangers in Albany. What with them boats coming and going every day the way they do. Be even more now that it’s almost harvest time.”

  “Yes, I know about the tars and the traders. I was thinking more about Indians.”

  “Old Groesbeck don’t encourage Indians. They drink too much too fast, then they make trouble. Ain’t too many slop shops or taverns in Albany as welcomes savages. Best if they come into town, do their trades, and get a jug to take with ’em.”

  “All right, what about just walking around the town, then. Someone you’ve not seen before. A Huron perhaps.”

  “Ain’t never seen no—”

  “Stop your jawing, girl!” Groesbeck’s yell cut through the hum of voices in the taproom. “Ye be coming back to work sometime this day, or do I gotta be floggin’ the skin off yer lazy back?”

  The girl shot a quick look at the landlord. And thought of the shilling the Red Bear had promised. “Hold yer water, ye poxed old man! I be coming.” Then, to Quent, “Only stranger like what you mean that I be seein’ round here be the Scot what’s living above the gristmill. The Widow Kreiger rented him a room nearly a year past, but he still talks like his tongue’s got a knot in it. Can’t hardly understand him meself. Though there be some as talk to him often as you like. Even giving up the chance of a few coppers out back in order to do it.”

  “One of the whores, you mean. A Scot comes in here and talks to one of the whores regularly. Is that it?”

  “That’s it. What about that shilling then?”

  “Which one of the whores?”

  “Annie.” The girl turned and craned her neck to see over the heads of the crowd. “Don’t see her just now. Not the Scot neither, but if you come back a bit later, I bet he’ll be—”

  “You be heading for a flogging, girl! Ain’t bein’ no doubt about it.”

  Quent flipped her the coin. “Here. And tell Groesbeck I kept you. And that if he takes a whip to you, I’ll return the favor.”

  The girl caught the coin and opened her mouth wide in a burst of laughter so strong it jiggled her full breasts. Three of her top teeth were black with rot and most of the bottom row were missing. “Don’t ye bother yerself none about that. The old fool’s been promising to flog me since he bought me indenture. Never has and never will. Can’t stand the sight of blood, old Groesbeck. Can’t even stick a pig without weeping. You come back later, Uko Nyakwai. I’ll point ’em both out, the Scot and Annie. And ye can have anything else ye likes while we’re about it.”

  “I’ll be looking forward to it.” God protect him from ever being that desperate for a woman.

  Quent ate and left the taproom, considering his options. He could look for the Scot over at the gristmill, or hang about and come back to the Nag’s Head in hopes of finding him there later. But there was no Scot in any part of Corm’s tale, and no reason to think this one—whoever he might be—had any role in the business of the sweat lodge and the Midewiwin priest and the dead Huron. Besides, he was anxious to return to Shadowbrook. His father’s health, of course, as he—d said to Genevieve. But also, or perhaps first, Nicole.

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 15, 1754

  THE LAKE CHAMPLAIN-HUDSON RIVER CORRIDOR

  In the days when the Kahniankehaka, the Keepers of the Eastern Door, truly ruled these lands, a Huron war party would move with more stealth than Lantak and his eight braves practiced now. Before the white stink covered the land and the testides of red men shrank like those of boy children in a cold wind, Lantak would have been a mighty war chief, not an outlaw driven from the Longhouse by chiefs who had the hearts of squaws, and ran from their enemies like chattering squirrels fleeing a hawk.

  In the past he would have been at the head of thousands of warriors, coming to engage other Haudenosaunee, the braves of the Five Nations who had bound themselves to observe the Kayanashakowa, the great law of the union that had set itself against the more ancient Huron Confederacy. Theirs would have been a war of red men against red men, true warriors against a worthy enemy. Instead he moved through a land of all but empty forests and rivers. He saw none of the wooden boats made by the whites, but no birch canoes either. Lantak and his braves were alone on the water they called Oswegatchie and that the French had named Lake Champlain. Their two canoes traveled in the sun-coming direction, in a world of silence broken only by the soft, slapping noises of their perfectly synchronized paddles.

  The Haudenosaunee had been put on this land by the Great Spirit, but they had allowed the others to come and make them slaves and squaws. Their lands were infested by vermin and they did nothing. They had shriveled like dog turds in the sun, all their life juices dried up and gone. When he thought these things, the burning began inside Lantak, and the fire that would not die roared in his belly and he yearned for release.

  The sun was dropping behind them, going into the center of the earth to rest Already the three-parts-round moon could be seen in the sky above the trees to their left Lantak smelled the approaching dark, and the stench of white men. The French were not far off. Fort St. Frédéric, the place the English called Crown Point, was only three days’ journey ahead. The French patrols might easily come this far. When the sun returned, he decided, the war party must leave the water and travel through the forest, take the long way to their destination to avoid the fort. So be it. A wise war sachem chose his battles; he did not allow them to choose him.

  He raised his hand and pointed at a cove with a shallow beach, and both canoes turned effortlessly and headed for land. “We will camp here tonight,” Lantak said when the canoes had been brought on land and carefully hidden. “Tomorrow we journey by foot. If we find horses we will take them. If we do not it does not matter. When the sun comes back no more than this many times,” Lantak held up the ten fingers of his two hands, “we will be on the land of our enemy and there are horses there. We w
ill take them, and many scalps, and some white captives to caress.” Then the fire in his belly would be quieted. The screams would calm it and the blaze would leave him in peace for a time.

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 25, 1754

  SHADOWBROOK

  “Look, Ephraim.” Lorene spun the chair that Solomon the Barrel Maker had fashioned for his master when Ephraim first took ill. Where its rear legs should have been were big, barrel-stave wheels. If you tilted the chair slightly backward, it made moving Ephraim a thing of ease. She was adept at using the chair and she was able to quickly adjust his position so he was facing the window. “Quent. And the girl, Mademoiselle Crane. See how he lifts her into the wagon? I told you. He’s smitten with her.”

  “Because he assists her up onto something too high for her to reach by herself? What does that mean?”

  Dear God, but men were obtuse. And blind. “It’s the way he does it, Ephraim. And look how he waits before driving off. Asking her if she’s comfortable, I’m sure.”

  “So it’s Quent’s good manners I’m supposed to be impressed by. I don’t think—”

  “That’s it exactly. You don’t think. You’re being a stubborn fool, Ephraim. And you’re putting the Patent in harm’s way.”

  He was mostly too ill to laugh. Not enough breath for it, and the belly pain that was always with him was worsened by laughter. This time he allowed himself a small chuckle. “How easy it is to tease you, Lorene. And after all these years you still blush at my words.” It had been remarkable the way he’d burned for her the first time he’d seen her. Just a girl of sixteen, younger even than this little French half-breed that had turned his household around. Lorene had brought some sunshine to the place too, back then. And some hope. He’d made the decision he had to make and never let on how it pained him, but it had been a black and bitter thing to think of John taking over Shadowbrook. “Look,” he repeated with another small laugh, “the flush is on you even now.”

  Lorene glanced down at the pink suffusing her breasts where the corset pushed them above her bodice, and felt the heat of it on her neck and cheeks. “We’re not talking about me, Ephraim. I’m trying to tell you that—”

  “Quent is the man to take on the Patent. I know.”

  “Yes, and that this Mademoiselle Nicole Crane will make a perfect wife for him. She’s good for the place, Ephraim. Even Sally Robin looked at her with approval.”

  “Sally Robin, eh?” The slaves said Sally had the gift of sight. He’d never been sure about that, but these days massage with one of her creams gave him what little ease he could find. He’d be grateful for that right now. His joints were aching something fierce. He was too tired to go on talking. “I need to go to bed, Lorene. Send Runsabout to help me. She gives my poor legs more comfort than any of the men. Better hands for it.”

  “I will, Ephraim. In a moment. But if you’d just consider how much better Quent would—”

  “Lorene.” He was gentle with her, his voice steady and soft. The time for teasing was past, probably forever. “I told you. I know.”

  “But I thought you meant to …”

  He nodded toward the small wooden chest with the inclined top that he used to facilitate writing when he was in bed. The cover lifted and there was a place to store those few papers that these days he considered important. Not many now. Life, he’d learned, was stripped to bare essentials at its end. “In there. I wrote it all out. My instructions for after I’m gone. Quent is to have Shadowbrook.”

  “Oh, Ephraim! Thank heaven! I can’t tell you—”

  He held up a forestalling hand. “It’s Quent who shouldn’t be told. Not just yet.” He had to stop for a moment because a surge of pain took his breath away. “Lorene, I truly need to—”

  “Go to bed. Yes, my dear.” Lorene half stood. “I could help you, Ephraim, if you’d permit me.” He weighed so little these days. She could easily put him to bed herself.

  Ephraim’s face got hard and he shook his head. He would never allow her to do for him as if he were a child. Not Lorene. Not after all the times she’d been soft and pliant beneath him and he’d been the master of her body as well as of all else. “Send Runsabout.” He had never expected the slaves to spread their legs for him. Damn fool thing to do, he’d always thought. Gave them entirely too much of a hold over their master, to have gazed up at a face contorted with passion. As for the children that might come from such trifling … A damn fool thing. No telling John that, though. No telling his oldest boy anything. He’d even considered naming Cormac, back when he thought Quent beyond his reach. But that would have been a hundred times worse. “Lorene, I perish with fatigue.”

  “Yes, of course.” She stood and gathered her embroidery hoop and the little spools of many colored cottons that had been spread in her lap. “I’ll send Runsabout, and Jeremiah to help her.” Jeremiah was the stable master. He had long experience of rubbing unguent into sore limbs.

  “Don’t say anything to Quent. Not yet,” Ephraim repeated. He wanted to add that whatever was going to be between his younger son and the small but he thought very independent women who had stumbled into their lives, it should develop naturally, with no false pressure put on by notions of inheritance. He hadn’t the strength to explain. “Not yet,” he repeated.

  “As you wish, Ephraim. You have my word on it.” Lorene glanced out the window once more as she left the room. The wagon was gone. Quent and Nicole were on their way to the sawmill to see Solomon the Barrel Maker. As she’d promised. It had been her suggestion that Nicole go along—she’d given her some things for the newborn to take to Matilda—but it was obvious that Quent would have invited the girl even without his mother’s manipulations. Lorene thought of the long journey to the sawmill and back. Just the pair of them. She smiled.

  If he’d taken a horse, Quent could have covered the distance in an hour; with a wagon it took two. His original excuse had been that he was taking some kegs of ale to the Davidsons, their quarterly supply according to the tenancy terms. Might as well come along, he’d planned to say to her. Since I’m taking the wagon.

  She rode, he knew. They’d talked about it once. But Lorene never had, and Jeremiah had informed them there were no sidesaddles in the Shadowbrook stables. “Pohantis and Mistress Shoshanaya, they be the only womans ever rode a horse on this place, Master Quent.”

  Both Pohantis and Shoshanaya had ridden bareback and astride, like all squaws. Next time he was in Albany, Quent promised himself, he’d order a sidesaddle made for Nicole. Should have thought of it this last visit, except he’d been too fixed on Corm’s story and finding out what he could. Less than nothing, as it turned out.

  “What are you thinking?” Nicole asked.

  “Nothing much.”

  “But we have been traveling for some time and you haven’t said a word.”

  He glanced around and realized they were almost at the sugarhouse. “Sorry. Lost in my thoughts, I guess.” He had no intention of mentioning Cormac to Nicole. Even after what she’d told him, he couldn’t bear to remember the two of them together. “We could stop at the sugarhouse. It’s on the way. If we do, we can bring some jugs of rum to the Davidsons. Maybe one for Solomon while we’re at it.”

  “Are the slaves permitted rum in this place?”

  “Far as I’m concerned, the slaves can do as they like, long as the work’s done.”

  “Your brother doesn’t seem to share that opinion.”

  “My brother is a fool, and cruel with it.” He pulled gently on the reins and the horse obediently made the turn onto the spur road that led to the sugarhouse.

  “I’ve three pies here.” Nicole looked into the basket that had been packed for her by Kitchen Hannah. “We could give one to Mistress Frankel if you’ve a mind.”

  “Women’s business,” he said. “Do as you think best.”

  “One for Sarah Frankel, then,” she said, lifting out the top pie. “From your maman.”

  It was just the sort of thing his mother would have d
one. And like her, Nicole did it instinctively.

  The sugarhouse was idle. “All the sugar from last year’s used up,” Moses Frankel told him.

  “More soon,” Quent said. He nodded toward the gristmill down the hill, idle too. “Everything ready?”

  “Ready as ever it can be.”

  Frankel was the miller, as well as in charge of the distilling. When the wheat harvest started coming in he would open the dams that allowed the race that powered the gristmill to fill and roar down the sluices. The great wheel would turn and set the huge stones to grinding, and the wheat would become flour to fill the bellies of the poor black bastards who were enslaved to the cane. Maybe not fill their bellies, exactly. Ward off starvation, more like. All the same, the Carribean plantations required every bushel of flour Shadowbrook could produce above what they needed for themselves. Last time Quent heard the count there were better than sixty thousand African slaves in the Leewards alone. And that didn’t include Jamaica or Barbados.

  The boats that ran the trade, were each owned by a consortium of merchants dependent on the captain to make them a profit by finding the best deals. They were even now headed for Albany. He’d heard talk of little else when he was in the town. The two-masted brigs would arrive and cast anchor in the deep middle of the river, riding low, heavy with sugar. Smaller craft—a couple of sleek sloops spreading yards of canvas, and countless little boats propelled by a determined tar and a single sail run up a sturdy pole—would leave their moorings at the town wharves and hurry to take aboard the rich, dark product of the cane, the single greatest cash crop the world had ever seen. Much would go to the sugarhouses where rum was made to supply the grog shops and taverns of Albany. Still more would head downriver to settlements at the Manor of Livingston, the Great Hardenburgh Patent, and the Patent of the Nine Partners. A goodly share would come upriver to Shadowbrook, and the boats that brought it would ferry the produce of the Hale Patent back to the brigs. There was no better flour to be had anywhere in the valley. The big ships would remain moored in Albany—square sails furled, most of the crew riotously ashore, filling the town’s coffers—until the Hale harvest ended and they’d laded all they could carry.