Savage Liberty

by Eliot Pattison

  “To the site of your new school?” Sarah asked. “Truly I must visit the new institution someday. We may have applicants for you among our tribal orphans.”

  Occom’s smile was forced. “Some of my flock are at the fort at Charles-town, in the New Hampshire colony.”

  “Oh,” Sarah said, “is that where your school will be constructed?”

  Occom glanced at Conawago before replying. “Just some members of my flock who were scouting a location. I owe them an explanation in person.”

  Sarah looked back and forth from Conawago to Occom. “Explanation?”

  Duncan saw Ishmael carefully studying the beans on his plate. Hayes and Munro stared expectantly at the tribal clergyman. In the silence, they could hear pumpkin seeds cracking behind them.

  “There’s been a change in plans—” Conawago offered.

  Occom put down his fork and knife. “It is my story to tell, friend,” he interrupted in a forlorn tone, then for a long moment studied his companions. “There will be no college for tribesmen. Reverend Wheelock has changed his mind.”

  “But you raised all that money for a school,” Sarah pointed out.

  “And that was the message I gave to every donor, that members of the tribes would be raised up to do God’s work by gaining the same knowledge as Europeans. It was the condition upon which Lord Dartmouth gave us such a lavish sum.” He took a long sip from his glass. “But all I am I owe to Reverend Wheelock. He says he has a new vision, that he already has an Indian school in Connecticut, that what is needed is a school for the boys of good English Christians.”

  “He’s taking your money?” Hayes asked in surprise.

  “Everything I am I owe to Reverend Wheelock,” Occom repeated. “He says he will appease the donors by naming his new college after the lord.”

  “He’s calling it God’s College?” Munro asked.

  Occom offered a bitter smile. “The secular lord. Lord Dartmouth. It is to be up the Connecticut, near where I had hoped to . . .” Occom’s voice choked away as emotion overwhelmed him. He had spent nearly two years of his life performing a miracle by raising a princely sum in England to help Indians, and it would now fund another man’s dream for colonists’ sons. Duncan recalled how Conawago had abruptly changed his demeanor toward Occom, had unexpectedly joined him at the back pew that morning. Conawago had known. The Apostles had known, which explained their sudden tension and divisiveness. Some were Wheelock’s men, but others were loyal to Occom. Old Noah seemed to have had his faith shaken.

  In the silence, Sadie, her eyes drooping after her meal, climbed up into Hayes’s lap and disappeared into the sack that hung from his shoulder. Duncan saw the momentary smile of contentment on the tinker’s face. Conawago had chastised Duncan again that morning for speaking with suspicion of Hayes, saying that he deserved nothing but sympathy, for he was a family man without a family.

  Hayes sensed Duncan’s gaze and looked up. “Dr. Simons says the aid you gave me that first night probably saved my life.”

  Duncan glanced at Sarah, who was watching him expectantly. “It was the least I could do,” he began. Her expression was cool, with something that might have been warning in her eyes. “I am grateful for your recovery,” he tried, and Sarah looked away, disappointed.

  “The harnessmaker has a pet duck, raised by a hen,” Will Sterret put in, trying his best to lighten the atmosphere. “It lands in the long watering trough at the village green and just swims back and forth. Some of the old horses are so used to her they just lift their heads to let her pass, then keep drinking!”

  Occom smiled. “I saw that once at the Four.”

  Duncan’s fork stopped midway to his mouth, and he exchanged an inquiring glance with Conawago. They had seen a numeral 4 etched in dirt with a bloody finger. “The Four?” he asked.

  “Odd, I agree,” Occom replied, “but that’s the name of the old fort up the Connecticut that the rangers used, where Charlestown was built. The Fort at Township Four is the official name, but folks tend to just call it the Four.”

  AFTER THE DINNER SARAH FOUND Duncan on the porch, at work with a writing lead. She silently sat beside him and read the paper he handed her. “Black Oxford and Golden Pippin,” Duncan said. “The first for cider, the other for the cellar, for winter eating.”

  “Then I hope you will find good stock at the orchardist,” Sarah said without looking up from the paper. “We should be there by late tomorrow if we get an early start. We can camp in the apple grove.”

  Duncan leaned forward, trying unsuccessfully to get her to look at him. “I won’t be there. I must go north.” He felt her shrink from him. He reached for her hand, and she pulled it away.

  “Must you ever fight other people’s battles?” she asked in a tight voice.

  “The king seeks to hang me and arrest you. I tend to think that makes it my battle.”

  “My people—” Sarah began. “The Mohawk say that the more scars a warrior receives, the more foolhardy he becomes. You have too many scars already. Come home, Duncan. They can’t disturb us at Edentown.”

  They paused, watching Munro, Occom, and Ishmael transfer a box of Bibles from Occom’s wagon to one belonging to Sarah, who had accepted the gift of Bibles for Edentown. As Munro lifted the heavy crate, a cat ran between his legs and the crate dropped. Occom gasped in alarm, but Ishmael helped Munro lift it from the ground.

  “Lord, Reverend, for a moment ye looked like the bishop who’s been caught in a whorehouse,” Munro said, laughing.

  “Just concerned for the Good Books,” Occom awkwardly rejoined, then turned to help pack the crate securely in Sarah’s wagon.

  Duncan touched Sarah’s shoulder, and she twisted again out of his reach. “If I don’t track this to the end,” he said to her, “they will find me. Even at Eden-town. I keep seeing those dead, Sarah, all those bodies on the beach at Boston. Those innocent dead are owed the truth. The truth belongs to the dead.” It was one of the ancient tribal sayings Conawago had taught him. At first he thought it meant that secrets died with the dead, but as the Deathspeaker he had come to realize that it meant the truth was a debt the living owed the dead.

  Sarah glanced at him and looked away. “Duncan, I have a terrible feeling about this. I’ve had wrenching dreams myself, about the tribes and us. I can’t go on with this pain between us. You mustn’t go.”

  In all the years he had been with her, from the day he rescued her from a suicidal leap into the stormy Atlantic, she had never used dreams against him. It was a force of tribal culture. To those who had raised her, dreams were sent from the other side, sent by spirits and gods, and their messages always had to be respected. Dreams could stop a battle, could even force a village to relocate.

  In the brittle silence Duncan sensed something rising between them, a new wall that might forever separate them. “These are not matters for the tribes,” he tried.

  “You are wrong. Whatever it is involves the tribes, too. In my dreams, I see you beaten and bleeding before a fire of death, with more death all around you. I see men bathed in blood and men burning, and a great, long beast lying in wait for you.”

  Duncan shuddered. He knew better than to treat such dreams lightly. These were powerful omens. “Conawago says that those of the tribes have more intense dreams because they are more respectful of the spirits.”

  “And so the spirits have stopped speaking to you?” Sarah asked. It was a profound accusation. “If you go north, your death is waiting.”

  Duncan sat in silence, fighting the pain. He was tempted to say that he had had a dream that he must go to the north, but he would never lie to Sarah. “I don’t know how not to go,” he said instead.

  Without another word, Sarah stood and left him.

  10

  NO ONE BUT PATRICK WOOLFORD, do you understand?” Duncan demanded of Ishmael as the young Nipmuc tucked his folded and sealed message into the pouch that hung around his neck.

  “Deputy Superintendent Woolford,” Ishma
el confirmed. “Captain of infantry,” he added, referring to the rank Duncan’s friend still held in the British army while seconded to the Department of Indian Affairs.

  Duncan pulled on Ishmael’s arm to get his attention. The young Nipmuc was watching the river docks, where two big whaleboats were being fitted out for Reverend Wheelock’s party. “He has a new son, so he’ll probably be close to his cabin, near his wife’s tribe. If not, he’ll be with Sir William at his manor house,” he added, referring to Sir William Johnson, hero of the Seven Years’ War and superintendent of all Indian affairs in the north. “It’s a long way. I want you to take Goliath. He’ll get you there in half the time. And carry more grease to keep his army brand covered.” Duncan held up his hand to stifle Ishmael’s protest. “We have time to go to the stables so I can get you two better acquainted. You take Goliath, and Sarah and Will take Molly, it’s better for all that way. Get the message to Patrick, then speed back to Edentown. You need to keep Sarah safe.” He paused over his own words. Sarah had her foreboding dreams, but he was fighting his own terrible premonition that he would no longer be in them.

  The Agawam navy, as the former sailor who ran the docks dubbed the town’s odd collection of river craft, seemed to have been sucked up by some Atlantic waterspout and deposited on the upper Connecticut. Crowding the waterfront were sailing dinghies, whaleboats, fishing dories, and long sailing gigs, most of which had seen heavy service, as if they’d been borrowed from oceangoing vessels.

  Duncan surveyed the battered smaller boats with dimming hope, then studied the docks. When he left to see Ishmael off—Goliath had shied away from the youth until Ishmael whispered in his ear—Conawago and Munro had been on the bank, apparently negotiating with the old sailor. Now they had disappeared. As a loon called out from upriver, Duncan contemplated with disappointment the prospect of rowing one of the unwieldy boats for dozens of miles. He was approaching the first dock when the loon called again, and he realized it was a most unlikely spot for the bird. With a grin, he saw Conawago waving from farther up the bank. Munro sat waiting in a long, sturdy canoe.

  THE POWER OF THE WATER restored him. The vision of Sarah, who had not returned his embrace when she departed at dawn, stayed with him, clouding his thoughts for the first hour. Then Conawago turned and with a single questioning eye banished his darkness. Duncan instinctively recognized his expression.

  It was one thing to be distracted from the true things when in towns, the Nipmuc had told him once, but to be so in the wilds was offensive to their spirits. Take the truth of the forest, he would say, or, as now, take the truth of the water. Be here, be now, the old Nipmuc had said, for this is the moment the spirits of nature have given to you.

  Duncan grinned, touched his totem pouch, and put his back into his paddle. Here were no bountymen, here were no assassins. Here was the shimmering river that bound sky and land together, here was the sleek silver flash of the hungering trout, here were the crystal drops that rolled off his weathered oak paddle. A stag paused from drinking to watch them glide by. A wood duck, ablaze with color, surfaced, cocked its crested head at them, and dove again.

  “Jiyathontek,” he heard Conawago say, then “Joskawayendon, yoyanere.” It was a chant of Mohawk warriors, used in the rhythmic paddling of canoes. Hearken ye, it meant, summoning the spirits, then here again is wildness, always emphasizing the strong first syllable on the downward stroke, it is good.

  “Jiyathontek,” Duncan echoed as he matched Conawago’s powerful stroke. “Joskawayendon, yoyanere.” After a few minutes he heard Munro, at the stern, take up the chant. The old Scot wasn’t familiar with Mohawk traditions, but as a veteran of the sea he recognized a good work chant when he heard it.

  Here and there the woods broke into open fields. Men worked plows behind teams. A boy perched on an overhanging willow with a fishing line paused to wave. They passed a southbound shallop stacked with casks of maple syrup, judging by the fragrant smell.

  The fort at Charlestown was nearly a hundred miles north of Agawam, and as they made camp on an island of birches, Duncan estimated that they had covered at least half in their long day of paddling, putting them near the border of the New Hampshire colony. They were cooking trout over their campfire when a long shadow glided through the night toward them. Any doubt as to who was on board was allayed when, with an excited bark, a big black shape leapt off the bow of the dugout canoe, splashing through the water to reach them. Conawago laughed good-naturedly as Molly nuzzled him so energetically, he fell off the log he was balanced on.

  Duncan shot up to grab the bow of the dugout and dragged it onto the little sandy beach. He recoiled for an instant as a small, furry creature leapt at him from the vessel; then it landed on his shoulder and patted his head like an old friend.

  “Good evening, Princess Sadie,” he said to the capuchin, returning the gesture. Solomon Hayes climbed out, straightening his ever-present cap, and stretched tired arms. The tinker shrugged. “The dog wanted to stay with the boy, and the boy insisted on coming north,” he explained as Will Sterret sat up from the bottom of the dugout, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Hayes extracted a frying pan from his huge tinker’s pack. “I brought a ham and cornmeal,” he declared in a hopeful tone as he looked at the fish still waiting to be cooked. With a gleeful murmur Munro balanced the pan on the stones by the fire.

  DUNCAN AWOKE WITH A START, out of a dream in which Sarah danced with another man. Her face had borne a serene happiness that Duncan had not seen for years. The man, lithe on his feet, stubbornly refused to turn his head even when Duncan called out to them. It was a silly, trivial image that he knew he should ignore, yet it stayed with him, feeling like a stone in his chest. He finally sat up, pushing aside his blanket, and tossed another log onto the fire. Molly rose and sat beside him.

  Several minutes passed before he realized that Molly had twisted her head toward the northern end of the quarter-mile-long island. Solomon Hayes’s blanket lay in a heap by his dugout. Duncan stepped to the fringe of sand that outlined the island and followed a set of shadowed footprints.

  He found the tinker in a tiny cove fringed with white birches, sitting on the ground and writing by the light of a small whale oil lamp. He had two papers in front of him and was working with a quill, apparently referring to the text on the left before writing on the paper at his right. From time to time Hayes looked heavenward and spoke, often with a question in his voice, as if needing to calculate what to write. Straining to hear the words, Duncan inched forward, Molly patiently following. He halted fifty feet away. Hayes’s voice was clearer now, but his words sounded like gibberish. He seemed to be reading from a small book on his lap, and every few moments he would dip his quill into a capped pewter inkwell and write. With a chill, Duncan realized he had seen such actions before. Hayes was writing in code, using key words from the text as anchors for an alphabet shift. Such codes were common in certain high government and military circles.

  It made no sense. There was no one to receive a coded document, no one to deliver it. Then he realized that the next day they would arrive at Charlestown and the busy fort at Township Number Four. Such a place would attract traders, French trappers, militiamen, and probably British soldiers, even frontier evangelists.

  Duncan tried to recall who might have heard him speak of Ticonderoga. Conawago of course, Munro, and Sergeant Mallory. But the sergeant was moving westward for sanctuary at Edentown, and Duncan was certain that Hayes had not heard of his plans. Had Will overheard? Hayes would have had all day in their dugout to coax the information from the boy.

  As Hayes kept busy at his writing, Duncan ventured a step closer. Then the tinker’s coconspirator made a soft, chattering sound. Sadie was somewhere in a tree, keeping watch. Duncan bent low and retreated, Molly steadfastly at his heels.

  He tried to sleep again, but each time he gained slumber, it was threaded with fragments of nightmares: Conawago lay dead, scalped, in a canoe drifting down a wide river. He turned a corner on a w
ilderness trail and found Will Sterret’s head on a pole. Sarah and a stylishly dressed man were being married in the Old North Church, with Samuel Adams standing nearby, nodding his approval. In a recurring dream, he kept pursuing a cloaked man down a shadowed road but could never quite reach him. He passed a farm where a young girl wept, and when he stopped, she pointed to the bodies of her family and said the wanderer had written secret words on a page and everyone who touched it died. He ran harder after the man, the sorcerer, and found that he was now carrying the ancient battle-ax his grandfather had kept in his thatched house by the water. A fog descended over the evil wanderer, but the one time it cleared, Duncan glimpsed his face. It was Solomon Hayes.

  AS THEY PULLED THEIR CANOE onto the bank below the Fort at Number Four, a young piglet charged out from a berry bush, emitting a high-pitched protest that Duncan at first thought was a challenge aimed at them. Then a barefooted girl of seven or eight years darted out of the shadows and captured the feisty creature with a long flying tackle.

  “Gotcha!” she chortled, then, with only a quick, uninterested glance at the new arrivals, ran toward a giant maple where a brindle sow rooted in the ground, accompanied by several other piglets. More huge maples rose up like sentinels in a line pointing toward the fort, each with a draft horse, ram, bull, or ox relaxing under its shade.

  “A fair!” Will exclaimed as he pointed to tables and tents arrayed along the log wall of the fort.

  “The midsummer barter meeting!” explained a teenage boy who was tending a red ox. “Folks come for miles to see the best creatures of the north valley.” Suddenly his eyes went round and he darted behind the ox for protection. As if taking his words as a cue, Sadie had poked her head out of Hayes’s side pouch.

  Munro made a sweeping gesture that took in Molly and the capuchin. “And have we not brought our best creatures then?”