“Two groups of five hundred each,” Johnson repeated. “A pincer movement.”
Thoyanoguin shook his head. “If they are to die,” he said quietly, “they are too many. If they are to fight, they are too few.”
William Johnson considered for a moment. Then he stood up and ran his boot across the markings and scuffed them out.
The next morning, sitting astride a fine chestnut gelding, Thoyanoguin led out the combined war party of nearly a thousand Yorkers and two hundred braves—mostly Kahniankehaka, but also Mohegan and a few Mahican. Thoyanoguin despised the Mahican and had little use for the Mohegan, nonetheless he had claimed the honor of leading them all. However much Johnson disapproved he could not deny him. Now the old chief sniffed the air, trying to smell enemy blood. The scouts said two hundred French regulars waited up ahead on the wide road cut by Johnson’s men during this long summer of preparation. But did this Dieskau mean to do what Braddock had done? Would they all simply wait to be killed?
Deep woods lined either side of the road. If it were he, Thoyanoguin knew, he would have placed—
“Oh nihotaroten?” What tribe? A voice from the woods, speaking in Kahniankehaka Iroquois. The Caughnawaga were deployed as he suspected. They were all around, but they did not wish to kill their own kind.
“We are of the Confederacy,” Thoyanoguin called out. “Members of the Great League of Peace, leaders of all the Anishinabeg. Most of us are of the Keepers of—”
A shot rang out. Ayi! It had come from behind him, not from the woods. One of his own hotheaded braves, too stupid to wait. A Mahican, probably. And now it was too late. Many shots. The braves behind him were like partridge in the short grass, available targets, more and more of them fell to the ground with every volley of musket fire and arrows.
Thoyanoguin felt the hot white pain of a musket ball pierce his shoulder. He slid from the horse and stumbled toward the woods. At first two of the younger braves helped him, then he couldn’t keep up and they scattered. Thoyanoguin ran through the woods until he saw a settlement up ahead. Women. His eyes were blinded by sweat and he had lost enough blood so that thoughts chattered in his head like rattling bones. The women who followed the Yorkers, he thought. The ones who did the washing by day and offered themselves at night when—
The first tomahawk had embedded itself in his flesh before Thoyanoguin realized he had lost his way and arrived at a camp of the enemy’s women and boys too young to fight. The river of blood had reached here and would be swelled with his own. He was still alive when the boys took his scalp lock, but dead before they cut out his heart.
LEAF FALLING MOON, THE SIXTEENTH SUN THE VILLAGE OF SINGING SNOW
“So now your birth father has passed to the next hunting ground, my white son?” Bishkek did not look directly at Quent when he asked the question.
“Yes, he is passed.” Bishkek had always been able to read the thoughts of both his manhood sons. Quent wasn’t surprised the old man knew it had been many months since Ephraim’s death, and that they both knew Quent’s visit was long overdue. “He passed in the Arriving Dark moon.”
“Arriving Dark,” Bishkek said softly. He and Quent squatted a short distance from the morning bustle of the village. Bishkek used the twig he held to scratch a number of lines on the ground, each one representing a New Moon ceremony. “No Sun, Deep Cold, Promised Light, Great Wind, Cracking Ice, No Fat, Much Fat, Thunder, Great Heat, Leaf Falling …” Bishkek paused and looked up. “Ten New Moon Tellings since your birth father passed. My whiteface son waited a long time to come and show respect to his manhood father.”
“I know I should have come before,” Quent said. “I could not.”
“And you do not plan to stay until the Telling of the Last Fruit Moon, either.” Bishkek’s face was grim and he looked away from Quent.
Last Fruit corresponded to October. The Last Fruit New Moon Telling would take place in a little more than two weeks. If he remained in Singing Snow all that time, his mission would have failed. “No, Father. I do not.”
“And have you a wife, my whiteface son? A birth son of your own?”
Quent shook his head.
“And you do not plan to find one here in the village, and put a bridge person child in her belly, or make yourself a manhood father to the son of another squaw, so that boy will come to know more of the Cmokmanuk ways even as he learns more of what it means to be an Anishinabeg man.” Bishkek’s voice displayed neither approval nor disapproval, but he did not smile. The words detailed Quent’s solemn obligations to the village. So far all were unmet.
“All that you say is true, Father.”
“And that is why you have taken so long to come to Singing Snow. So tell me,” Bishkek said, “if you do not mean to honor our ways that you swore would be your ways, why have you come? Why have I held you in my heart since you were a little boy, and why has this village placed so much hope in the two bridge persons who were one with us. Haya, haya, jayek,” he said softly. So, so, all of us together. “Is it not so, my whiteface son?”
“It is so, Father. Haya, haya, jayek. I am always one with the people of Singing Snow. In my heart, always. In my spirit I am what you named me, Kwashko, he who jumps over fire.” The memory of the Potawatomi brave he’d killed in the woods near the Monongahela was a sour taste in Quent’s mouth.
“But now you are Kwashki,” Bishkek said. “He who jumps back.”
Quent shook his head. “No, never. I am one with you and with everyone in this place of the Fifth Fire. I am Potawatomi.”
Bishkek looked at this man he had watched over since boyhood. Uko Nyakwai, the Red Bear. A terrible name, but it suited him. And a bridge person must be free to move forward and back. “Tell me why you have come,” he said softly. “If I can do whatever it is you have come here wanting me to do, I will.”
“Only tell me where I can find my brother.”
Bishkek used his twig to draw a few more lines in the earth. Quent knew the marking symbolized something, but not what. “Wabnum,” Bishkek said, nodding toward the scratches. “Cormac is the white wolf. My other bridge person son is on a sacred journey. He is following the dream he was sent. It is not for us to interrupt such a quest.”
“I am part of the quest, Father. I have things to tell my brother. About the hawk and the white bear and the white wolf.”
Bishkek looked up, mildly surprised that Quent knew so many of the details of Cormac’s dream. “If you are part of the quest, how come you were not with him when he first came?”
“The dream was sent to Cormac when my birth father stood on the ground between this life and the next, Father. I could not leave him. But the Great Spirit sent Cormac the dream while we were both under the same roof.”
“At Shadowbrook,” Bishkek said. The word sounded strange coming from his mouth.
“At Shadowbrook,” Quent agreed. “And I have important things to tell my brother about the little birds and the river of blood.”
For a time Bishkek was silent. Eventually he nodded. “Kekomoson had a dream that sent Cormac all the way to the edge of the earth. Then my other manhood son came partway back. Now I am told by a brave who saw him there that he is in Québec.”
SEPTEMBER 18, 1755
MONASTERY OF THE POOR CLARES, QUÉBEC LOWER TOWN
Mère Marie Rose had decided. She would introduce the sacrifice of praise to the discipline, as Père Antoine suggested, but in accordance with the Holy Rule of St. Clare, giving up nothing of her authority, or her responsibility to her youngest daughter.
The nuns were gathered together in the Chapter Room, where the important landmarks of each nun’s life were acknowledged. Here they met weekly to accuse themselves of faults against the Rule—no Poor Clare ever accused another—and listen to the abbess’s admonitions and corrections. Here each nun learned that she had been accepted as a novice and would be invested with the habit. When she was to be admitted to vows she was told in the Chapter Room. When she had kept those vows for twe
nty-five years her sisters gathered with her and the abbess in the Chapter Room and she was given a silver crown. If she lived long enough to reach the fifty-year mark, she wore a crown of gold. Soeur Marie Stephane had reached one milestone when she was clothed. Now she was approaching another.
Nicole knelt in the middle of the room, bent low, her forehead pressed to the stone floor, her hands clasped above her head. The posture was typical of the Poor Clares and was one to which she had grown accustomed this past year. “For the greater honor and glory of God,” the abbess said, “the ever Blessed and Immaculate Virgin Mary, St. Joseph, our Holy Father St. Francis, our Holy Mother St. Clare, and all the saints, and for the salvation and greater sanctification of your soul, your holy profession will take place on the twenty-ninth day of September, the Feast of St. Michael the Archangel.”
Nicole lifted her forehead from the floor, sat back on her heels, and stood. Little Soeur Angelique approached. “I wish you joy, dear sister,” she murmured as she kissed Nicole ritually on both cheeks, then hugged her hard, “and the grace to persevere in the life.” Soeur Joseph next, then Soeur Françoise, and after her the vicaress, Soeur Celeste. Each murmured the same message. “I wish you joy, dear sister, and the grace to persevere in the life.” Joy was what she was supposed to feel. Her own free will. Over and over again she had said that, been told that. She was making these decisions of her own free will. Eleven days. Then I will make my vows and it will be final. Goodbye, my beloved Red Bear. Goodbye.
Marie Rose approached her youngest daughter and wrapped her arms around her. “I wish you joy, dear child. And the grace to persevere. For as long as it’s necessary,” the abbess added.
“When will it not be necessary, ma Mère?” She blurted out the question, startled by the abbess’s words.
“When you are dead, dear child. That is the blessed release that comes to us all.” There was a light in Mère Rose’s eyes that only shone when she spoke of death.
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 28, 1755 THE WOODS OF POINTE-LÉVIS, ACROSS FROM QUÉBEC
The throaty, three-note cry of the northern loon echoed overhead. Corm and Quent looked up, then at each other. Both men laughed. “Damn bird could cause a problem,” Quent said. Since they were boys they’d used the loon’s call to pick each other out in a crowd, whether of trees or people. It worked fine down south where northern loons were a rarity.
“If you’re going to be here much longer, it could be a problem,” Corm agreed.
“Perhaps a chickadee,” Quent said. “Not too many of them this far north. You any good at chickadees?”
“Good as you are, that’s for sure. But there’s lots of birds sound a bit like chickadees. And—”
“And what? C’mon, Corm. Spit out what’s behind your teeth.”
“You should not stay here long enough for us having a special signal to matter.” The day was frosty, the early Canadian autumn announcing its arrival. They’d made a fire in the woods where they were leagues from any habitants. Corm held his hands over the glowing embers. “Best thing would be for you to leave these parts before the snows come.”
“A little snow isn’t going to bother me.”
“No, but it will make you easier to track.”
“I take it you mean Lantak.”
They had been here talking for two days, since the cry of the northern loon identified Quent’s arrival in Québec Lower Town. He’d found himself a secluded corner near the wharves and whistled the call every fifteen minutes or so. Corm discovered him after the fourth time, and one of the first things Corm told him was that Lantak was completely recovered from the shoulder wound of the year before. There was a tale that it had taken a long time to heal, because the wound rotted and was starting to turn black before Lantak found an old woman skilled enough with herbs to make him able to fight again. But since then he had attracted a new group of followers. There were always braves unwilling to follow the discipline of the Longhouse. Renegades were never in short supply. Lantak swore he would take Uko Nyakwai’s scalp with his own dirk, then use it to cut out his heart and eat it while it was still beating.
“You think I’m getting old and infirm, maybe? You’d wager on Lantak over me?”
“If he hears you’re in Québec, he and his braves will come after you. Nine or ten of them, last I heard.”
“Sounds like a fair fight,” Quent said.
Cormac grinned. Since they were boys, whenever the odds looked impossible, they said Sounds like a fair fight. This time the grin faded quickly. “It’s not just Lantak.”
“What then?”
“Seems to me that if your plan’s any good, it needs to be put in place quickly. The longer you stay here, the more it’s delayed.”
“You’re not sure about its being a good plan, are you?”
Corm grimaced. “The plan’s good. Better than anything I’ve thought of, it’s just …”
“Haya, haya, jayek. All of us together,” Quent said softly. “Tell me your thoughts.”
“I’m thinking that it’s not like you to credit a dream. That part of you has always stayed Cmokman. Dreams don’t have meaning for you.”
“Sometimes they do.” It was forbidden to discuss your death song, what it was or how it came to be, so he said only, “Old Thoyanoguin’s dream was almost the same as yours.” He’d told Cormac everything that happened at Do Good, how after the attack on Shadowbrook he hadn’t intended to bring Nicole to Québec until he found Solomon and got him home, but then the Kahniankehaka chief had appeared and said Nicole was the hummingbird in his dream and the bear had to carry her as she asked or there would be terrible consequences.
“Thoyanoguin dreamed a river of blood,” Corm said, repeating what Quent had told him.
“Yes. Exactly as you did.”
“There is no way to know if his dream and mine are—”
“A river of blood,” Quent repeated.
Corm shrugged. It was hard to argue about a dream. That was what made it such a mysterious and powerful thing. “This fight between the English and the French, you believe that is what it will become?”
“I believe it can become that, yes.”
“But the English and the French fight all the time. This is nothing new.”
“No. Listen with both ears, Corm. Before now it’s been mostly Americans and Canadians doing the fighting. This time both sides are sending armies of regulars. That is a very different thing. What happened in the Ohio Country … Blood enough for any damn river.”
Cormac shook his head. “The Anishinabeg won the fight on the Monongahela. I see that as a good thing.”
“You’re wrong. This time it was a very bad thing. The English cannot accept a defeat like that. They’ll seek revenge. Last time they sent two understrength regiments. Next it will be four. Sweet Christ, maybe six or eight. And the French will have to match them. We Cmokmanuk are going to wage total war here, Corm, European-style war. Between us we will crush the Anishinabeg.”
Corm was silent. “Care to tell me what’s really bothering you about my plan?” Quent asked.
“Nothing about the plan. You speak with De Lancey down in New York, make a suggestion he’s bound to be clever enough to understand, and I find Pontiac and talk to him … Nothing’s wrong with either of those things.” Corm hesitated. Dusk was settling, the dark thickening. A flight of starlings swooped down to treetop level, chattered, then rose and flew away. “But I’m to ask Pontiac to, convince all the Anishinabeg to fight on the side of the English—”
“Fight with the English or remain neutral,” Quent corrected.
“Either way, it’s damned difficult. Almost impossible. Pontiac’s a war sachem. You honestly think the Suckáuhock will convince him to fall in with this scheme?”
“It must,” Quent said. “Besides, Pontiac’s Ottawa. You’re Potawatomi. In the beginning, one people.” He was quoting the opening lines of a New Moon Telling. “Pontiac will have to respect your words and honor your dream.”
�
�Respect is not the same as doing what you are asked to do. Listening is not the same as hearing.”
Quent shrugged. It was true. “Say you’re right and I’m wrong. Say the Suckáuhock doesn’t move Pontiac to see things as we do. What is it for, then? Why did Memetosia give it to you?”
“I don’t know. Some dream he had, maybe.”
“That’s what I think, too. So it’s all part of the same plan. Memetosia’s dream. Your dream. Thoyanoguin’s dream.” Quent waited, but Corm didn’t comment. “Everything fits.”
“If your plan is part of the dream, yes, you’re right.”
There was still doubt in Corm’s voice, but there was nothing more Quent could say. Corm’s dream, Corm’s choice.
“You didn’t find anything at the Lydius place?” Corm had been circling back and forth in the story for hours, weaving in and out of the long line of circumstances that had brought them to this place. “No explanation for the Huron who attacked me?”
“None. I told you, Genevieve and John were the same as always. And the same when they came to my father’s funeral.”
Corm winced. “I feel really bad about not being there for that. Miss Lorene—”
“She understands. Corm, what do you want to do? Are you with me on this or not?”
“I’m always with you. And getting Bright Fish Water and the Great Carrying Place back for the Patent, I know how important that is, but—”
“But you’re not sure it fits into your dream.”
“I’m not sure about any of it.”
“I am,” Quent said. “The hawk is the Jesuit priest you met in l’Acadie. I’m the bear. And you’re the white wolf. I’m sure of all of it.”
“I thought the bear was protecting the little birds, maybe it was the enemy.”
“You only saw the bear, you didn’t see him do anything.”
That was true. “How come it wasn’t a red bear in my dream?”
“How in tarnation should I know that?”
Corm poked at the fire and the embers flared. They’d come over to Pointe-Lévis the day before. Stole a boat because they didn’t dare hire one for fear the boatman would talk about his two highly identifiable passengers, and rowed a quarter league across the water, to the woods of the southern shore, where they could talk as long as need be with little fear of discovery or distraction. Now the time for talk had come and gone. Corm stood up. “We do it.”
Shadowbrook Page 42
