I hurried down Maiden Lane toward our house on Depeyster Street. As I rounded the corner I almost collided with a hatchet-faced figure in black: my uncle, Johannes Van Vorst. “What’s this?” he said, noticing traces of tears on my face. “I thought you’d be prancing around the town, whooping like an Indian, waving my bloody scalp.”
“It’s none of your business, I assure you,” I said, wiping my eyes.
“You’ve proven yourself quite a nuisance,” Johannes said. “But my turn will come. An old friend in Amsterdam sent me a copy of Vondel’s paper, which leaves no doubt about your morals. I mailed your husband a copy today.”
“He doesn’t read Dutch.”
“I had it translated for him.”
“I can explain it to him in five minutes.”
“I had a letter the other day from Oloff Van Sluyden. He hopes you’ll venture up the Mohawk again. He guarantees it will be your last trip.”
Johannes’s hatred was like a pail of cold water in the face. My rage at Clara abruptly dwindled. I walked home to Depeyster Street in a meditative mood. Maybe it was best to look upon Malcolm’s return to Clara as a temporary thing. Clara was probably right, it was better than him going to whores and getting an infection which might sicken us both. Maybe I should be consoled by my profits in the fur trade, my success in Amsterdam, my triumph over my uncle.
In the house, I found Bridget McCarthy playing with the baby. I sat him on my lap and Bridget asked what they should call him, now that his mother was home. “Shall it be Cornulus, ma’am?” she said, mangling the name in a typically Irish way.
“Hugh will be fine,” I said. I would yield in little ways to Malcolm. What did it matter what the child was called? My grandfather would understand, if he was aware of my continued existence in this bizarre world. I was bowing down in my struggle for my heart’s desire. Soon, I was sure, larger stratagems would occur to me. You’re not as lovable but you’re far more clever, whispered the Evil Brother. Fool that I was, I accepted the compliment without demur.
FOUR
THAT NIGHT AT SUPPER, I SIGHED theatrically over my tea. “The most awful thing happened to me today,” I said.
“What?” said Malcolm, halfway through his third piece of apple pie.
“I was told my victorious lawsuit means nothing. We’ll never be able to go near our Mohawk Valley lands.”
“What? Why not?” Malcolm said, putting down his fork.
“I met my Uncle Johannes on the street. He told me Oloff Van Sluyden has sworn to kill me if I so much as set foot in the Mohawk Valley again.”
“The son of a bitch!” Malcolm growled. “What do you plan to do with that land? Five thousand acres is almost eight square miles. I’m no farmer—as you well know. I’m principled against hiring slaves—”
“I am too,” I said, giving Clara her due. “I have a better idea. In Amsterdam I obtained enough credit to open a trading post up there. We could sell off most of the land to small farmers in two-hundred-acre tracts. Eventually, we’d have a countryside of prosperous customers and meanwhile we could do a fine business with the fur traders going up the Mohawk to Oswego. We could put that bastard Philip Van Sluyden out of business.”
“Sounds good,” Malcolm said, scraping his plate.
“But it’s all dwindling away to a mere dream,” I said. “How can we do anything in the face of the Van Sluydens’ promise to massacre us?”
“By putting ourselves in readiness to massacre them first,” Malcolm said.
“You’d do that—for me?” I said.
“You’re my wife, damn it!” Malcolm said. “It’s land our son will inherit someday. Of course I’ll do it. I’ll do it for us—and for the colony of New York. We must have law and order on our frontiers, just as we have it here on Manhattan Island!”
By now you must be wondering: Is this the same Catalyntie Van Vorst? The headstrong virago who seldom knows how or when to hold her tongue? Yes, it was the same woman but she was learning to apply some of the philosophy she had recently acquired—in the service of her heart’s desire. She wanted to open a trading post on the Mohawk. But she wanted something else even more, something that made this idea irresistibly attractive. It was a perfect way to separate Malcolm Stapleton from Clara Flowers.
As I purchased a fortune in strouds and jewelry and blankets and other goods on my Amsterdam line of credit, I met Clara on Pearl Street and told her we would soon be leaving for the Mohawk. I looked for a hint of distress, some sign that she would miss Malcolm. I saw nothing.
“I hope it goes well,” she said. “There’s so much evil involved in that disgusting trade.”
I slept poorly that night, wrestling with Clara’s ominous words. I struggled to convince myself all over again that the fur trade was a business like any other business, no worse, no better. Where did Clara find the gall to call it evil? Uninspiring, difficult, dangerous, perhaps—but evil?
No sooner had I resolved that large question than I found myself wrestling with whether to sell rum to the fur traders, who would inevitably resell it to the Indians. Should I be the middleperson in this destructive process? I asked Malcolm what he thought. He began with an oration about how little he liked the fur trade in general and finally said rum was absolutely necessary if I hoped to attract customers. If the traders had to go to Philip Van Sluyden for their rum, they would buy his goods too.
Still I could not bring myself to purchase the stuff. The next night at dinner, my husband was unusually silent. Finally he confessed he had discussed the rum with Clara. “She thinks we should quit the business rather than sell it,” he said.
“How can she object, when she sells the same vile stuff each day at Hughson’s?” I said. “There are drinkers in New York who don’t handle rum much better than the Indians.”
“That’s true,” Malcolm said. “But—”
It was demoralizing. Could I have changed his mind about rum as swiftly as Clara? I doubted it. But I agreed with her and ruefully abandoned the vile potion—and a decent profit from our venture. “We’ll cut the prices on our goods,” I said. “They’ll buy from us rather than Van Sluyden—and maybe resell them to the Indians without using rum. They won’t need it to make a good profit.”
After another long silence, Malcolm warily added: “Clara thinks we should hire free blacks for our work force.”
“What if it comes to fighting?”
“I can train them to fight as well as any white man,” Malcolm said. “If all goes well, we could settle them on farms up there. Clara thinks it might be a step toward freeing other blacks and letting them create their own towns and villages. Perhaps their own colony.”
“Why not?” I said.
I was getting Malcolm out of New York—that was the main thing—perhaps the only thing—that mattered to me. In a month, we headed up the Hudson to Albany. It was a far different expedition from the parlous little band I led the last time. Malcolm had recruited two dozen sturdy young African dock wallopers who liked adventure and a chance to own their own farms. Guert Cuyler, who was in love with soldiering almost as much as Malcolm, abandoned his lawbooks to serve as second in command. His family owned lands along the Mohawk and he planned to survey them and begin selling them off. For a share of our profits, he would lend his survey skills to us as well. Adam Duycinck was our bookkeeper, organizer, and paymaster. On his advice, we had bought two three-pound cannon to help defend our outpost.
All in all, I had invested ten thousand pounds in this venture—far more than the value of the Mohawk lands—in fact, almost all the money I possessed. I was violating my grandfather’s primary rule, never to risk more than half my money on a single enterprise. But I recklessly thrust his warning voice out of my mind. I was getting my heart’s desire. Nothing else mattered.
In Albany we made no secret of our plans. On the contrary, Malcolm invited every fur trader he met to examine our goods—which were superior in variety and quality to Philip Van Sluyden’s wares—and underso
ld him on every item. We distributed maps of the Mohawk, specifying our location on the very site of my parents’ ruined house. We retained Nicholas Van Brugge to draw up a charter for The Stapleton Trading Company and commissioned him to be our land agent.
Finally we hired wagons and bateaux and sent a messenger up the river to Peaceful Lake’s village, asking the sachem if he would permit us to hire a half dozen warriors as scouts. Malcolm was determined not to be surprised. We mentioned this alliance to no one, not even Van Brugge, who told us the Van Sluydens and their allies were talking bloodily in the taverns about our invasion.
I gloried in the way Malcolm took charge of this enterprise. I never stopped descanting to Guert Cuyler and Adam about his good judgment, the masterful way he handled the traders, even when some of them, Van Sluyden loyalists, flung insults in his face. Our old enemy de Groot was much in evidence along the docks, warning everyone that if they traded with us, they would never do business with Philip Van Sluyden again. More and more, it became apparent that there was not going to be any quarter offered in this war.
For a while, Malcolm was the midnight lover I had known in New York, when he first went into politics. He reveled in my double need for him, as a protector and a husband. But our rapture abruptly dwindled the night we reached the site of my parents’ house. I remembered so much, I crept into his arms more like a frightened child than an ardent woman. I wanted his strength to exorcise memory’s nightmare. He responded with wonderful compassion. For any other man and woman, it would have been the most memorable night of their marriage. Instead his tenderness reminded me of Clara and my ardor faltered. I struggled to escape my fearful inferiority, to achieve the spiritual sharing Clara urged. But it was beyond me.
When our Seneca scouts arrived, a different kind of trouble began. They were led by our old Oswego friend, Leaping Deer. Inevitably, as soon as he discovered we gave a daily ration of rum to our soldiers, he wanted some. The other braves echoed his demands. Malcolm was inclined to give them a ration. I absolutely refused.
This made them less than enthusiastic scouts. They skulked in the woods a half mile from our camp, instead of ranging in a ten- or twelve-mile arc. Malcolm accused me of usurping his authority and was almost as sulky. “I wish we’d brought Clara along,” he growled. “You don’t know how to talk to Indians.”
That inflicted another wound on the Moon Woman. I found myself tormented by terrible nightmares. Again and again, I saw the Senecas rampaging through our house, my father toppling through the years, his blood staining my pathetic love. No wonder I was such an easy prey for the Evil Brother. In one of the dreams I recognized Clara’s Seneca father, Hanging Belt, the greatest warrior of our village. How could such a noble figure commit such a crime? I remembered the gentle way he had played with me and Clara when we were children. How he had brought us presents from his trading voyages to Oswego, dolls and bits of jewelry.
Soon, no matter how passionately Malcolm loved me, I found no pleasure in it—or anything else. Day and night, my head ached, my stomach churned with nameless fear, my heart was like a piece of icy mud in my breast. I began to feel doomed, defeated. The energy, the enthusiasm I normally summoned for business seemed to have evaporated. Gradually I began to realize I was spiritually sick. Clara was right. This was a haunted place. I should have never come near it.
One of the people I saw repeatedly in my dreams was Joshua, Clara’s father. He prowled the wrecked house, clutching his scalped head, a spirit in torment. At times he knelt beside my father’s corpse and wept. For some reason his ghost seemed trapped in this world. Had he failed to prepare himself for death? As Senecas we were taught that everyone must gather his spirit for the passage from the land of the living to the land of the dead. Those who fail to do so roam the night forever.
Meanwhile, our Africans labored to build a small stone fort from the ruins of the house. It was hard, slow work. Along with the masonry and timbering, Malcolm insisted they spend three hours a day rehearsing various military maneuvers and sharpening their marksmanship on targets in the meadow. After a full month, we had only three walls and half a roof.
On the river a steady procession of traders passed us on the way to Oswego. Only a handful stopped to examine our wares—and all deprecated our lack of rum. Overthrowing Philip Van Sluyden was going to be equally hard, slow work. The realization that I might soon be facing financial disaster did nothing for my troubled spirits.
Leaping Deer and his Senecas decided to go home. I had to pay them a month’s wages for doing nothing. As they headed for Oswego with enough money to stay drunk for a week, I seized the arm of the youngest brave, a slim swift warrior named Little Beaver. I asked him if he would take a message to the village of Shining Lake. “Tell Hanging Belt if he will come to the place where he first found She-Is-Alert and Nothing-But-Flowers and bring the shaman, Flying Crow, he can wipe away the bad blood he spilled here.”
Little Beaver agreed to carry the message for an extra five days’ wages. Next I dispatched one of our hired soldiers down the river to New York and asked Clara to join us as soon as possible. I wondered if I were going crazy. I was abandoning one of the primary purposes of this journey. I was inviting Clara to join us in the wilderness, where she and Malcolm would be tempted to resume the unreal love that still haunted them.
Two weeks later, Hanging Belt and two younger warriors appeared before our still-unfinished fort. With them was the successor of Flying Crow, the shaman I had known in Shining Creek. His name was Black Wing. Hanging Belt was at least sixty. But he still carried himself like a warrior. I told him how I had seen him in my dreams—how the whole place was haunted by the ghosts of those he had killed here.
“Why did you attack these people?” Malcolm asked in his bad Seneca.
“We were told they were here to steal away our fur trade,” Hanging Belt said. “It would come down the river of the Mohawks and avoid our lands.”
“Who told you?”
“A trader from Albany. I don’t remember his name. But he had red wampum36 and a promise from the governor that we would have a special place in the trade if we killed them. He said they would build a fort near Shining Creek and we would be paid for each pelt that crossed our lands. Instead they built Oswego and the promise was forgotten.”
Hanging Belt gazed mournfully at the ruined house. “It is not a deed of which I have ever boasted,” he said.
It was exactly as my grandfather suspected. The Van Sluydens had committed murder to protect their illegal trade with Canada. But our first task was to pacify the souls of the slain. “When Nothing-But-Flowers arrives, we’ll begin the ceremony of mourning,” I said.
Clara arrived the next day. She embraced Malcolm and kissed me with special fervor. “I’ve been having the same dreams about my father,” she said. “It was almost as if I were here with you. Your letter was like a message of deliverance.”
She greeted Hanging Belt and the shaman, Black Wing, and the other two braves with her usual warmth. They were delighted to see her, especially when she told them about her dreams. “Now we know there is work to be done,” Black Wing said. “Our long journey has not been in vain.”
The implication was not flattering to the Moon Woman. Her dreams might be caused by eating rotten fish or too many walnuts. But the power of Nothing-But-Flowers’s orenda was uncontestable. Once more I found myself struggling with my old feelings of inferiority.
That night, Black Wing instructed us to build a great blaze in the ruins of the old manor house. He donned one of his false faces, seized his rattles and his shield on which were painted signs so ancient no one knew their meaning. They belonged to the warriors who first came to the forests and lakes of New York, a thousand years ago.
“Listen to me,” quavered Black Wing, in the chanting voice of the priest. “I speak as one who knows the way to the land of the dead. It is written on this shield. Read the signs of deliverance and speak them when the Evil Brother or one of his devils bars your p
ath.”
In the grass outside, Clara and I and Hanging Belt and the other Senecas shook rattles and chanted ancient prayers. “No one can trap your soul!” we cried. “See how the Evil Brother flees before the False Face. Draw hope from our voices. Begin your journey now to the land of the dead, where those you love await you.”
Around and around the blaze Black Wing raced, flaunting his sacred shield, shaking his rattles. His false face, red and black and twisted to one side, so that one eye was higher than the other, gleamed in the firelight. Slowly, I began to feel the grip of the evil spirits loosening. My heart began to beat freely.
I turned to Clara. Her eyes were shining in the firelight. “I feel it too,” she said. Tears poured down our cheeks.
“Grieve no more, Father, your daughter is here,” Clara cried. “Accept your fate, however cruel it was. None of us can choose our deaths.”
The fire blazed into the night. In its dancing glow I glimpsed Malcolm and Guert Cuyler watching us, astonishment on their faces. We were revealing the depth, the reality, of our Indian selves.
Somewhere in the forest, a cry of pain interrupted us. “Help. Catalyntie! Malcolm! Help!” A minute later, Malcolm half led, half carried Nicholas Van Brugge into the firelight beside Black Wing. Blood drooled from his mouth. He had been shot in the chest. “They’re coming!” he said. “I heard about it—by accident. They’re only a few miles away, downriver.”
We abandoned the ceremony of mourning and rushed the wounded man to a tent beside our half-finished fort. “I followed them up the river,” Van Brugge said. “They shot me yesterday. But I managed to escape into the forest. They didn’t find me.”
“Who is it?” Malcolm said.
“Philip Van Sluyden and that bastard de Groot,” Van Brugge said. “They’ve got a hundred men. Fifty Ottawas led by a French officer—the rest traders.”
A hundred men. We had twenty-four, plus Malcolm and Guert. I turned to Hanging Belt. “These are the same men who brought you here to kill innocent people a hundred moons ago,” I said in Seneca. “Now they are bringing fifty Ottawas from Fort Niagara and another fifty white men from Albany. They’re coming to kill me and Nothing-But-Flowers. Will you stand with us?”
Remember the Morning Page 28
