Dawn on a Distant Shore

by Sara Donati

  They passed an Abenaki camp where some boys not much older than Liam were roasting a dog over a smoky, spitting fire of green wood. One of them looked at her hard; he had a nose ring that shimmered against his upper lip and a panther tattoo on his forehead. She looked away and still felt his gaze like a stick prodding at her ribs.

  Then Bears’ hand on her shoulder pointed her toward a small camp under an outcropping of cliff. And there they were, her mother’s people. Ten or twelve traders, all of them hunters but warriors, too, their scalps shaved clean around topknots shiny with bear grease. They were from Kayen’tiho, the village to the south of Montréal where Stone-Splitter was sachem; many of them were Wolf clan, and blood kin. Hannah felt completely safe for the first time since they had come to Sorel, and she wished that they hadn’t left the women and babies behind in the protection of Robbie and Will Spencer. Surely they would be better off here than they were in port. This morning Hannah had counted two redcoats for every five men out of uniform from her perch on the window seat in the transom.

  They were given corn soup in hollow gourds. Hannah ate and listened while the men talked first of family, of the hunting season, the season’s trapping and how much money the furs were fetching, and whether it was worth the long trek to Albany for better prices. When those formalities were done, heads bent close together and newer stories were told, and nothing held back. All the men made a natural circle around her grandfather as he talked. Somerville, the gaol, the fire, the young man called Luke, butchers and farmers, Wee Iona … Hannah followed the flow of the story again and the comforting rhythm of her grandfather’s voice wove itself into a cradle that she could not resist. She fell asleep and woke with a start just a few minutes later to find the youngest son of Spotted-Fox standing over her.

  He was gnawing on a knucklebone, his face glistening with fat. His belly had the last roundness of a younger child, but there was a quickness to his eyes. His nose wrinkled as if she smelled bad, and his eyes trailed over her dress of spotted calico.

  “You look like one of the People, but you dress like an O’seronni,” he said in Kahnyen’kehàka, as if to test her.

  In the same language she answered him, “My grandmother is Made-of-Bones who is Kanistenha of the Wolf longhouse where you were born. Don’t you remember me, Little-Kettle? I’m Squirrel. I wiped your nose for you more than once a few winters ago.”

  He flushed. “Aya. You have your grandmother’s sharp tongue.” And then, after a look over his shoulder to the circle of men around the fire, he said, “Come. There are things to see.”

  Hannah’s hesitation lasted only for a few heartbeats. For as long as it took for him to challenge her with his eyes: was she one of the Real People, or was she O’seronni?

  She followed Little-Kettle into the crowds.

  No one took note of them, two red-skinned children among so many. Neither of them had a coin to spend and so they skirted the cook fires where pinfeathers filled the hot air and hungry men bought corn bread and squash stew and blackened duck on long skewers, sprinkled with pepper and maple sugar. For a shilling a Cree woman in a curious cape and hood painted with designs in red and black would cut a hissing slice of venison from a spit, to be juggled from hand to hand and eaten hot enough to scorch the mouth.

  On a trampled spot under a triangle of wild plum trees in first blossom people crowded around to watch a man with bloody fists take on all comers. Little-Kettle’s eyes grew, but the smell of cheap rum was heavy in the air and Hannah pulled him away, ill at ease. They stayed longer to watch the Huron playing Guskä’eh, polished peach-stones rolled in a wooden bowl: white, black, white, black. Four of either at once and coins shifted from one dusty pile to another. But here too the smell of liquor could not be ignored, and Hannah began to think of her father, and to look around herself for the quickest way back to the Kahnyen’kehàka camp.

  Little-Kettle had wandered off to look at a man who sat on a shabby blanket.

  “Moccasins,” the man called out to anyone who passed. “Fine buckskin moccasins. Cured ’em myself.”

  “Look at him,” whispered Little-Kettle. “The Huron must have done that to him.”

  Hannah looked. Clumps of dark hair streaked white and pulled back in an uneven queue, as if to show off his ears, or what remained of them. They had been notched hard, leaving behind nothing more than frayed strips. It was true that before the priests had got the best of the Huron they had been known to take ears and fingers and more from their war prisoners, but this man had a brand on his cheek, a crooked t faded to a bright pink against his graying stubble.

  “Not the Huron,” she said.

  He had the look of the wanderers about him, the ones who had never found a place to settle after the war, too much a colonist for England, too American for Canada, and not welcome anymore by Yankee or Yorker. She had heard the stories around the hearth in Anna’s trading post, how loyalists had been stripped of their property and turned out to make their way to the Crown’s protection in Canada, or starve. Tar and feathers, split noses and jugged ears and white-hot branding irons. Or worse, if you were a woman. They were soldier’s tales and never meant for little girls to hear, but Hannah always had a talent for making herself small and listening hard, and she forgot very little.

  She looked at his ruined face and at his moccasins: lopsided, the leather poorly cured, uneven in color and pieced so badly that no woman would claim such work. He made her uneasy, but his moccasins made her sad.

  “He’s a Tory,” she told Little-Kettle, already turning away. Hannah used the Kahnyen’kehàka word for Englishmen, Tyorhenhshàka.

  But the man’s head snapped around toward her as if she had called his name. He squinted in the sunlight and his eyes were as brittle and shiny as rocks heated red hot again and again.

  “Wahtahkwiyo,” he croaked. Good shoes. The hair rose on the nape of Hannah’s neck and all along her spine there was a sparking, but she could not walk away as she knew she must; he had used her language and pinned her to the ground with it.

  He laughed, his tongue a pale pink snake among blackened stumps. “Come along, then, missy,” he hissed, in English now. “Don’t run away. Buckskin moccasins. Took the hides myself, down Barktown way. Your corner of the world, by the sound of you. Two big Mohawk bucks, oh yes. Maybe your kin, eh? One of ’em had a turtle tattoo on his cheek. He looked something like you, so he did.”

  Little-Kettle had no English and he opened his mouth to ask her what it meant, the look on her face. But Hannah grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him away. The man’s laughter clung to them like smoke from an unholy fire.

  It was late afternoon when they started back to the Nancy. Hannah slipped into the canoe between her father and Bears, and wrapped herself in the striped blanket they had bought for her, glad of its prickly warmth: the wind was coming up cold, setting the new leaves on the oaks that surrounded the Cree lodge to shivering.

  The blanket was well woven, but still Hannah could not quite stop shaking. She wanted to talk to her father, but he was so far away from her and his worry so close to the surface. She didn’t know if she had the right words, anyway. Are men so cruel? she wanted to ask him, but she feared his answer. She hugged her knees to her chin and stared at her moccasins, worn thin now across the toes. Last fall she had helped her grand mother cure the hide, and then she had pieced and sewn them under Many-Doves’ careful eye. They were lined with the fell of a rabbit she had snared herself. The beadwork was uneven, but she had been very proud of them when they were done. Hannah tucked her feet harder under herself and took her lip between her teeth to keep them from chattering.

  The Nancy and the Isis were docked side by side like a hen and chick. Hannah stared hard at the Nancy but could make out nothing behind the transom windows, where Elizabeth and Curiosity would most certainly be sitting with the babies. She wanted to climb onto a lap where she could be sure of a calm voice and a close ear and no one would remind her of her age or her color. Maybe word
s would come to her then, and she could let them go in a flood and wash the trouble out of her head.

  In mid-river a boat—a ship, Hannah corrected herself—crossed their path. It had two masts, and was running slow with only some of the smaller sails up. This close, Hannah had a view of the Royal Navy that surprised her. Captain Pickering’s crew had been well dressed in neat jackets and breeches, but here were men in blue coats faced with scarlet and trimmed with gold braid, the late sun sparking off gilt buttons. Even a young sailor up in the rigging wore a gaudy red neckerchief, a blue jacket over a checked shirt, and loose, red-striped trousers. He reminded her of the juggler she had seen once at a fair in Johnstown, tossing balls in a circle in the air. It was almost enough to lift her spirits, if it hadn’t been for the officer—she thought he must be an officer, for his uniform was even frillier than the others, and there was a great deal of gold looping and lace on his hat—staring down at them from the quarterdeck.

  Her grandfather made a clicking sound with his mouth and all three of the men lifted their paddles while they rode out the wake, the fragile canoe heaving beneath them. And the little officer with the silly hat still watched, his head craning around as the ship slid past. Behind her Hannah could feel her father’s tension spiral up and then fall off when the man finally looked away, blank-faced.

  One of Hannah’s plaits had come undone, and the wind whipped her hair against her cheek. She glanced at her father over her shoulder and saw his expression, somber with worry. And just a few canoe lengths behind them, a whaleboat full of redcoats, rowing hard.

  Hannah’s throat closed in fear. She turned farther and half rose from her crouch, one hand coming up to point out to her father what he must see for himself. His face came alive with surprise and he opened his mouth to shout—sit down!—but the wake from the ship was still strong and she had already lost her balance. The canoe rocked hard once and then again, water sloshing up. Hannah slipped over the side into the icy river without a cry.

  He had her by the collar as soon as she came up, lifted her sputtering into the still-rocking canoe as if she weighed no more than a trout. Bears’ face like thunder, and her father angry, oh, he was angry: she knew the look although she had not seen it often. But she could do nothing but cough and cough and then she began to shake; she couldn’t remember ever being so cold. With some separate part of her mind she saw that her nails were tinged blue and understood what that meant. Her father was wrapping the blanket around her, his anger softening into more worry. She heard her grandfather’s voice but could make no sense of the words.

  But she heard the redcoats. They were laughing, round hats bobbing as they rowed by.

  “Good fishing, eh?” shouted one of them.

  “A tasty morsel, that!” And a roar of laughter.

  Hannah put her head down on her knees and willed her tears away.

  • • •

  “If I have understood you correctly, cousin,” said Will Spencer, closely examining Daniel’s sleeping face, “you have two ways of quitting Québec immediately. The first is to travel by canoe with the Mohawk, if that can be arranged. The second is to sail on to Halifax with the Isis and look for passage to Boston or New-York from there.”

  Elizabeth had been pacing up and down with Lily, who was finally settling after a difficult day, but she stopped and considered her cousin. Will was intelligent and rational and completely worthy of her trust. He had come far for their benefit and risked much. His good name and negotiation skills had never been put to the test, but his journey to Montréal had taken a good end anyway: Somerville had proven too politically astute—or too cowardly—to accuse a fellow peer of complicity in a gaol break. And if Will had the misfortune to be distantly related to a backwoods American fugitive, he was also the only son of the chief justice of the King’s Bench. Somerville had not only sent him on his way, he had also asked Will to chaperone his daughter on the first leg of her journey to her new life.

  The sight of her cousin’s husband in good health was the best that the day had afforded thus far; Elizabeth was inclined not to burden him with more of their difficulties, and simply to send him to join Amanda. But she also knew that Will would be satisfied with nothing but candor.

  “There is also the possibility that Mr. Moncrieff will arrange passage for us,” she said, bringing up a name that they had not yet discussed. “A friend of Pickering’s. He was arrested with our three and released the morning of the day that they … got out of Montréal. Pickering tells us that he is hard at work at it, although we have not yet seen him.”

  Will looked up from his examination of Daniel. “But I have. Seen Moncrieff, I should say. He came to Québec on the Portsmouth with me.” Something flickered across his face, and then it steadied. “And Miss Somerville, of course.”

  “Oh, Will,” said Elizabeth with a little rush of air. “Do not tell me that you too have fallen under Miss Somerville’s spell. Perhaps she is fey, and not quite human at all.”

  He gave a great hiccup of surprise. “Elizabeth!”

  “Don’t Elizabeth me, Will. Every man who comes in contact with her sacrifices some part of his good common sense—and his heart.”

  “Is that so?” said Will, one eyebrow arched. “Every man?”

  Elizabeth narrowed an eye at him. “Are you infatuated with Giselle Somerville?”

  “Of course not.” Will laughed. “She could never engage my interests, Elizabeth. Surely you know me that well.”

  With a sigh of relief, Elizabeth began to pace again. “Well, I am glad to hear it. Now, more important than Giselle Somerville—what did you think of Mr. Moncrieff? Did you trust him?”

  With a shrug Will said, “He is Carryck’s man, and will have considerable connections here.”

  From the first officer’s cabin where Curiosity had gone to rest there was a fit of coughing. Elizabeth turned in that direction and waited until it had passed. When she was sure that Curiosity did not need her help, she resumed her pacing, which seemed now to have some good effect on Lily. The baby yawned so widely that Elizabeth might have laughed, if she were not trying so hard to get her to settle.

  “I did not ask about Carryck, Will. I asked if you mistrusted Moncrieff.”

  He sighed. “You are not changed at all, Elizabeth. Very well, then, I had only a day with the man. He is not a retiring character.”

  Lily had finally fallen into a real sleep and Elizabeth eased her gently into the basket, so that it was a moment before she could turn to her cousin. “Ah. I take it then that his talkativeness set you on guard. He told you then about his theories regarding Hawkeye’s parentage?”

  Will brought Daniel to her so he could be put down next to his sister. “Yes, he did. He was just out of gaol that morning and highly agitated by the report of the fire and the escape—as was I, of course. I expect that otherwise he would not have been so indiscreet.” With one finger he rubbed a scar on his chin that dated from a particularly rousing game of archery when they had been no more than twelve. Elizabeth was taken by a sudden and unexpected swell of homesickness for a time when life had been simpler. Now when she looked at Will he glanced away, as if he had more bad news and did not know where to start.

  He said, “You seem very unconcerned by the fact that you may have married into one of the richest lines in Scotland. Carryck is a major shareholder in the East India Company. His personal fleet alone brings in a fortune season by season.”

  In her relief, Elizabeth laughed out loud. “Is that all? I thought you were about to tell me that Moncrieff was an agent of the king’s and on his way here to arrest us all.”

  “Ah. Then you do not think that Hawkeye is Carryck’s heir.”

  “I did not say that. I think he very well may be. But even so, Hawkeye has not the slightest interest in the connection. And Nathaniel feels as his father does.”

  That calm gaze was designed to uncover the slightest inconsistency in an opponent’s story, and he leveled it at her now. “But what of you,
Elizabeth? It would be a far easier life than this one, to be the wife of Carryck’s heir. And your son’s birthright, as well—I should think it hard to overlook that. Do not look so surprised. This must have occurred to you.”

  Elizabeth sat down. “But you have surprised me, Will. I may yearn for simplicity, but an easy life has never been my goal. You of all people know that. And as far as my son is concerned—” She looked toward the sleeping children. “He has no need of what Carryck can offer. We Bonners do not put a great deal of value on worldly goods, in case you had not noticed.”

  “Hmm.” Will’s gaze flickered toward the bag that he had returned to Elizabeth and Nathaniel earlier in the day. It sat in the clutter of Pickering’s desk and might have been full of pebbles, for all the concern that had been shown about it. Elizabeth reached over and took it up, weighed it in her hand.

  “I promised to tell you about the gold,” she said. “It is a long and quite complicated story.”

  “Your stories often are, since you came to the Americas.”

  There was a knock at the door, and Robbie’s glowing white hair appeared. In front of him, a head shorter and half his width, was Angus Moncrieff. The dark eyes were sharp in the long, angular face; he cocked his head and put Elizabeth in mind of a magpie on the prowl for shiny things to line its nest.

  She slipped the bag of gold into the basket at the babies’ feet and tucked the blanket over it.

  “Madam,” said the Scotsman with a deep bow that made her almost regret her uncharitable thoughts. “It is my verra great honor. I am sorry not to find your guidman and his father with you.”

  There was a great rush of footsteps from the deck.

  Elizabeth said, “Your timing is very good, Mr. Moncrieff. I believe that must be them now.”

  But it was Captain Pickering, who came with news of a mishap with the canoe. He had seen it from the quarterdeck, where he had been in conversation with his first officer. In a sparse few sentences he let them know what had happened. His tone was calm, but Elizabeth saw considerable alarm in his expression.