The remaining rifles spoke, and the canoe lost all headway, sinking fast. Duncan realized that Longtree was extending another rifle toward him, Duncan’s own. Duncan aimed at a section of the canoe that had not yet been pierced. “Saguenay,” he said, and fired.
It was over in seconds. The three men were standing in the canoe as it disappeared. They flailed in the violent current only moments before they too were gone.
Duncan turned to the two cloaked figures who stood silently at the back of the ledge. Colonel Hazlitt and the vicar general said nothing, just nodded at Duncan, then walked back down the trail.
The Mohawks too soon left, but Duncan, Woolford, Conawago, and Munro lingered, watching as the big ship weighed anchor and made sail for Europe.
Duncan reached into the pack he had left by a boulder and pulled out the soiled, water-stained ledger. It was thin, and tattered from long use. It was hard to believe it had caused such agony and changed so many lives. Kings had coveted it, merchant princes had been terrified of it, and Duncan could have grown wealthy with it. But he had come to understand it more as a symbol, of greed and empire-building, of the mindless exercise of power by men who had not earned the right to such power. The debt to the dead was not fully paid.
He looked into the face of each of his companions. They had talked the night before of keeping it secure, knowing it could be of value in the long struggle they sensed coming. But now each grinned and nodded. Munro touched his plaid. He had had the last word before dawn. “I don’t entirely ken where this path of liberty is taking us,” the battle-worn Scot had said, “but I do ken that we won’t get there playing by London’s rules.”
Duncan stepped to the edge of the rock and with a mighty heave sent the ledger in a long arc that ended in the swift, bottomless river.
Epilogue
Early October 1768
Edentown
THE MOHAWK BROUGHT HIS STICK down violently on the wiry Scot, who rolled with the blow, muttering something quite rude in Gaelic and adeptly thrusting his own stick through the legs of the warrior to trip him. The warrior tumbled and slid, then paused as he rose, showing his assailant the brown smear that covered his arm and bared thigh. He had fallen onto a fresh cow patty. For a moment both men stared at each other; then both burst into laughter and sprinted down the field, where their teammates were fighting with racquets over a small buckskin ball.
“No, you don’t,” Sarah Ramsey said as Duncan took a step toward the lacrosse game. “You’ve played enough today. Who’s going to mend the broken bones if the doctor gets one himself?” She slipped her hand into his and pulled him away.
The Mohawks and the Edentown settlers had been playing the game for hours and gave no sign of tiring. Hoots of joy and cheers rose from the onlookers who sat on the fence of the big pasture. Some of the settlers, Duncan noticed, were cheering the Mohawks, who in good spirit had accepted the challenge when the settlers produced a team twice as big as their own.
Sarah looped her arm around his and led Duncan along the broad track that connected the community cattle barn, the horse stables, the smithy, and the cooperage, ending at the little schoolhouse where Duncan had once taught her to read and write after her years with the Iroquois. She greeted a tribal woman in Mohawk; then Duncan gave his regards in Gaelic to a red-haired boy and even boldly tried Welsh—“Sut wyt ti?”—when they passed the new cobbler just arrived from Cardiff. As they reached the horse stables, Sarah was knocked into Duncan’s arms, laughing, by Molly as the big dog, Sadie on her back, raced out of the barn beside Will. They were followed by a gaggle of joyful children, the last of whom paused to shyly present Sarah with a brilliant feather that appeared to have been plucked from one of her hens.
Duncan could not recall when he last felt so content. The first harvest was in, the foals of the Belgian plow horses were all healthy and prancing around the back pasture, and judging from the sweet scent on the October breeze, the cider mill near the orchard had begun pressing apples. An inquisitive nickering caught his ear, and he turned toward a side pasture to see Goliath pacing along the split-rail fence, calling to him. He grabbed an apple from one of the baskets waiting for the mill and greeted the big thoroughbred with the treat. They had decided that the government owed him at least a good horse, and Ishmael was certain he could find a way to convert the military arrow brand into a spruce tree, which they would then affix to the other mounts.
As they approached the little schoolhouse, they heard a metallic hammering, then a curse that combined English and the Nipmuc tongue. The student population of Edentown had outgrown the compact structure, which was being converted to a new and unexpected use.
As they entered, Conawago looked up from a machine that occupied nearly a quarter of the chamber, and he raised a skinned knuckle. “She and I are still getting acquainted. A feisty lady.” He grinned, tapping a leg that extended from under the machine, and Noah, ink staining his hands and face, crawled out, smiling sheepishly.
“Folks will be looking on the front page for a greeting from the proprietress,” the Abenaki declared to Sarah as he wiped his hands on his apron.
The machine had arrived in large crates the week before, with a letter addressed to Conawago from John Hancock. He and Robert Livingston, the note explained, had made a charitable vow to equip some of the most literate men in the New England and New York colonies with the means to cultivate the seeds of literacy among their neighbors. Therefore, Hancock had written in his elegant hand, please accept this gift, Conawago, so that your fellowmen may bask in the warmth of your erudition.
The press was secondhand, but it was a sound German-made device with years of service left in it. Sarah, who had looked—to no avail—for an explanation from Duncan, had quickly offered the use of the empty schoolhouse, and Conawago immediately asked Noah to join him in the enterprise. Noah stepped to the typesetting table and lifted a page that was blank except for the masthead. The words Beacon of the Wilderness in large font were flanked by images of stags leaping between trees. The two old tribesmen were filled with a boyish energy that made Duncan’s heart swell.
“It’s perfect!” Sarah exclaimed.
Noah gestured to the large slate on the back wall, a vestige of the schoolhouse days. “Our first issue’s content,” the new editor declared, then motioned Sarah and Duncan to examine the list of articles and topics written in chalk. Message from Sarah Ramsey, read the first, then:
Alarming News from Boston
The State of Animal Husbandry in the Ramsey Grants
Status of Harvests
Reports of Family Events and Sojourners
Conawago muttered, then went to the last item, Serialization of the Aeneid in Original Greek, and crossed it out. “I’ve told you,” he reminded his fledgling editor, “we have no fonts in Greek or Hebrew.”
“Perhaps,” Duncan suggested to Noah, “you could offer a different quote under the masthead each week.”
The old Abenaki brightened. “We can start with Aristotle!”
“I was thinking of something more current,” Duncan said, then lifted the chalk and wrote on the board.
When he was done, Noah stepped back and read his words aloud. “ ‘If liberty is taken from men without their consent, they are enslaved,’ ” he recited with an approving nod.
“From Mr. James Otis of Boston,” Duncan said.
“Perfect juxtaposition,” Noah declared. “Speaking as an editor,” he added self-consciously, handing Duncan a mock-up of the leading story. TROOPS OCCUPY BOSTON, it said, and reported the news that had arrived with Munro the day before. The British Crown had finally lost its patience and dispatched the 14th and 29th Regiments from Halifax, who were now demanding quarters in Boston’s private homes and public buildings.
Duncan felt Sarah’s gaze, but did not return it. The warrant for his arrest had been withdrawn owing to John Adams’s valuable assistance, but Duncan had promised her to stay away from Boston for now. Conawago lifted a type rack set with a
nother headline. It took a moment for Duncan to read the reversed letters. PROPRIETRESS OF EDENTOWN BETROTHED, it announced. Sarah laid her head on Duncan’s shoulder. John Adams had also been successful in overthrowing the order of extended servitude imposed by her father, and as soon as Adams obtained the signature of the magistrate, Duncan would be a free man, at least until the wedding could be arranged.
THE GREAT FEAST SARAH HAD organized under the autumn-tinged oaks and maples continued until dusk, punctuated by frequent toasts offered by lacrosse opponents. As sleepy children were being carried away, Ishmael tapped Duncan’s shoulder. Duncan did not understand why he was being summoned, and as Ishmael led Duncan across the shadowed field, the Nipmuc youth, an expectant glint in his eyes, seemed disinclined to explain. Duncan saw flames as they approached the rim of the forest, and he realized that the tribesmen were using the old clearing once reserved for the Edge of the Woods ceremony, where Europeans had met periodically with Iroquois to confirm that they had come in peace and would speak only the truth at council fires.
Conawago and Noah sat at the far side of a rough circle of logs, their backs to the deep forest in the traditional position of tribal ambassadors. Woolford and his Mohawks were already seated in the circle. Ishmael fed the fire, then took a seat between Munro and a blond youth who looked vaguely familiar. Conawago indicated the stranger with the stem of the long ceremonial pipe he was lighting. “The wheel shop in Quinsigamond is closed for two weeks,” he explained, and suddenly Duncan recognized the newcomer as Samuel, the nephew of Josiah Chisholm, the gentle soul who had yearned to become this boy’s stepfather. Duncan clasped hands with Samuel and looked back at the old Nipmuc, who offered no further explanation. No one had invited Samuel to the festival, but Duncan had begun to realize that this council fire was not part of the festival.
Everyone seemed to be waiting for Conawago to open the council, but it was Noah who first cupped some of the fragrant smoke to his lips and spoke. “We have come to greet and thank the warriors,” the former church elder intoned. “We have come to greet and thank the kindred. We have come to greet and thank the women.” He was using the prayers that opened the ancient Edge of the Woods ceremony for joining strangers. But then he shifted to his own words. “We come to thank the gods in the heavens, the gods in the land, and the gods in our hearts. We come to thank them that we have become brothers who keep watch over each other in the night and stand at each other’s side when foes approach.”
Duncan studied the faces of those in the circle, who apparently knew more about their purpose there than he did. It was as if Noah were invoking some kind of secret brotherhood. The old Abenaki passed the pipe to Conawago, who puffed once and spoke. “We who keep the strength of the oak and the eye of the eagle,” he said, and handed the pipe to Corporal Longtree.
“One stick alone breaks,” the Mohawk solemnly stated after cupping the smoke to his mouth. “But the sticks bundled together never will.”
Each man inhaled on the pipe in turn and spoke with the cleansing smoke wreathing his head. “The brothers of the bear,” was all one Iroquois ranger said.
“There are bonds that can be thicker than blood,” Ishmael offered.
“The wheel is strong because each spoke carries its weight,” declared Samuel.
“The stag who outruns all enemies,” intoned another Mohawk.
When it was Munro’s turn, he nodded at Duncan as he inhaled on the Indian pipe. “Every man here has been living long enough with endings,” the Scot declared in a contemplative tone. “It is time we looked to beginnings.”
Woolford shared a quick smile with Duncan, who silently mouthed the words he knew his friend would speak. “ ‘We few, we happy few, we band of brothers,’ ” the ranger captain said, no doubt hoping no one would point out that Shakespeare had put them in the mouth of an English king.
Duncan, still on uncertain ground, chose an old ballad from his childhood as the smoke blessed his tongue. “ ‘God send each noble man at his end, such hawks, such hounds, and such friends,’ ” he recited, and handed the pipe back to Noah. As he did so, a small party emerged out of the shadows. Reverend Samson Occom, looking much thinner yet somehow stronger than the stiff pastor Duncan had met in Boston, was with Solomon Hayes, carrying between them the case of Bibles Occom had sent with Sarah when they parted ways in Massachusetts. Close behind them were Sarah, holding Will’s hand, and several Mohawk women, who took seats beside the Indian rangers, apparently the wives of Woolford’s warriors. At Will’s side was Molly, who, with Ishmael’s blessing, seemed to have adopted the boy.
“There are sons in Boston who are being forced to let the king’s troops sleep under the same roofs as their own families,” Munro suddenly stated, pulling out a tattered copy of the Boston Gazette and reading how warships had trained their guns on the city while columns of redcoats had unloaded from barges and marched through the streets to ominous drumbeats. The old Scot concluded with the newspaper’s quote from a public dispatch sent from General Gage in New York, who, in ordering the occupation, described Bostonians as “mutinous desperadoes.”
“We ask for compromise, and they instead order in troops, as if dealing with an enemy.” To Duncan’s surprise, the words had been spoken by Ishmael.
“I heard someone here say that the king did not deserve this land,” Conawago pointed out.
“Words of anger,” Duncan said. “I have no wish for another bounty on my head.” Sarah, standing behind him, squeezed his shoulder as if to agree, but then she spoke.
“The king negotiates in a brutal way,” she observed, “but still it is a negotiation.”
Duncan glanced up in surprise at Sarah, who had so assiduously struggled to keep Edentown shielded from the conflicts of the outside world.
“The king has all the power,” Noah said. “Even if the farmers and tradesmen and tribesmen were to call themselves the Sons of Liberty, what do they have to impress the king with? Plow horses and hay rakes? Spinning wheels and applejack? The Sons have no muscle, have no confidence, have no cohesion.”
As if this were a cue, Hayes and Occom lifted the heavy crate between them and brought it closer to the fire. They both knelt and with borrowed tomahawks pried off the lid. Occom lifted out Bibles, which Hayes reverently stacked on one of the long benches. When the Bibles were removed, Occom began handing Hayes slats of wood. The crate had a false bottom.
“I spent two years of my life in England, a stranger in a strange land,” Occom explained, “to bring back twelve thousand pounds for an institution that had apparently been only a figment of my imagination.” There was a peculiar gleam in Occom’s eye that Duncan had not seen before. “I prayed for hours after Reverend Wheelock told me he had other plans for my funds. That night, when I expressed my disappointment toward the altar, I heard something I had never before experienced. It was the sound of my God laughing. The conundrum was of my own making, he was saying, and the resolution was therefore in my own hands. He let me understand that I was only one of his many instruments, as was the money I had raised, so I acknowledged my debt to Reverend Wheelock and paid it. He will have his college in the New Hampshire grants, for I have surrendered to him nine out of every ten pounds I collected. The rest,” Occom said with a nod to Sarah, “went west with Miss Ramsey. I most profusely apologize for the deception.”
Duncan recalled the nervous way Occom had acted when the crate from Boston had been dropped to the ground in Agawam.
Sarah gaped at him in surprise. “I didn’t . . .” she began. “I was waiting for the new minister to arrive to open the Bibles,” she offered with a blush.
“It was Providence, fair lady,” Occom assured her. “Many a night I have prayed that the crate had not been discarded or burned.” He began extracting little sacks of coins from the bottom of the case, handing them to Hayes, who laid them in a line by the Bibles.
Duncan rose to heft one of the bags. There were more than two score of them, representing more than a thousand pound
s, a fortune by any standard. “I don’t understand,” he said to Occom.
“My dream was snatched away by men who court favor with a government across the sea.”
“But this is enough to build a new mission school.”
Occom lifted one of the sacks. “This alone is enough for a new school in the western lands.” There was an odd challenge in his eyes as he looked at Duncan. “I collected the money for God’s work. There is another aspect of souls in the colonies that needs ministering, which I did not understand until I joined this company. The New World demands new types of ministers.”
“There is no land like this land,” Duncan said. The words had risen unbidden to his tongue.
“There are no hearts like those nurtured in this soil,” Occom said. “Men need to find the voice of those hearts if they are to be heard in London.”
Once more Duncan hefted the sack in his hand. “You cannot buy men’s hearts.”
“No. I am speaking of providing tools. The right tools empower a man in both body and spirit.”
“Tools?” Duncan asked.
It was Munro who took up the answer. “Paper and ink for new printing presses,” he said. “And muskets for militias who have only sticks to train with.”
“Books,” Noah put in.
“Shoes good enough for long marches,” Corporal Longtree added.
“Cloaks for winter camps,” Ishmael offered.
“You’re suggesting that we secretly support the Sons of Liberty,” Duncan declared.
“No, Duncan,” Conawago said. “You speak as though the Sons were someone else. We have become the Sons of Liberty, for the frontier lands, for the remote farmlands. We will build a network of like-minded souls. Nipmuc, Scottish, Mohawk, Welsh, Oneida, Irish, Abenaki, English, whatever the blood.”
Duncan glanced back uneasily at Sarah. “It would take a lot of hard travel to nurture such a network.”
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