‘I don't know. After the maple season it's quiet. I don't mind. Perhaps next year I'll go to Pawating. Who knows?’
She asked me about my own home and family. It was difficult to describe so that she could imagine it. Even as I spoke I could see what kind of pictures must be forming in her mind, which were not the truth, but I blew no way of bringing her closer to it.
I hadn't realised that Waase'aaban had met Rachel until she said, ‘I knew your sister. She was good. I hope that Nanubushu will send you good dreams so you can find her.’
I asked her to explain what she meant.
‘You have not heard of Nanubushu? Truly, you have not? That is very strange. It is hard also for me to tell you. It is the wrong language, and also the wrong time of year. But I try: Nanubushu is a very powerful Manitou. He was born of an Ojibwa woman and Epingishmook, “of the West”. Nanubushu's mother died, and his grandmother took him and taught him everything. The time came for Nanubushu to make his – what do you say – he must go alone and look for his – like a dream, you understand – his dream – and he went west to the land of the Great Mountains. There – I do not tell all this part – he made peace with his father. It is Nanubushu who went through the world and greeted all beings that were made and told each one their name, and so they came to be. But it happened that Nanubushu lost one of his family, one that he loved very much, and so he wandered through the world, always searching. He asked each of the animals and they helped him. And Nanubushu wandered until he came to where the Great Bear was. An evil Manitou was in that place, and said to the Great Bear, “Go and – I have not the word – go and . . . and . . . – like this'” – Waase'aaban's thin hands curled into claws, and she mimed the cruel blows of the Great Bear. ‘And the bear did. He came up out of the water and did this thing. But Nanubushu is a very powerful Manitou. As the Great Bear came to kill him he . . . he . . . he changed himself, and the Great Bear said, “How can Nanubushu become like this?” And so Nanubushu went on his way.’
‘And did he find the one he sought?’ I asked her.
Waase'aaban hesitated. ‘The story is too long, I think. If you come in winter you will hear it. But what I am telling you is, Nanubushu is the most powerful one, he created the world and he speaks to all the animals in the world. This is why when we greet one another – or any creature – we say Boozhoo, which is part of his name, for he was the first to greet each one, in the beginning of the world. He is Nanubushu, and always he is seeking. And for your sister – I think he is the one who will help you.’ There was a pause. ‘Do you understand my story? It is a true story, you understand?’
‘Ay.’ I lied, for I had not understood her in the least.
There was a fire in my head, blazing as brightly as the stars above us. It: consumed every rational thought in my brain like so much tinder. Perhaps this is what drunkenness is like, before the flame bums out and it becomes merely sordid. I know not. What I do know is that I took her hand and drew her to me, and she didn't pull away. And that was not all that I did before we parted.
1 I believe now that there is no such matter as a simple act of charity. Charity doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil. A human being may abound in charity, but we are mixed creatures, and in every charitable act I think there is a little of something else. I look back now, and have perhaps more inkling of Waase'aaban's thoughts than I had then, but cannot find it in my heart to condemn any one of them as evil. And if they were not wholly seemly, selfless, disinterested or good, then I have to ask myself, by what standard do I judge? If it be by a measure that meant naught to her, then perhaps it is meaningless even to consider the matter. At the time I thought none of this, but was filled with uncertainty, not only about my parlous situation, but also concerning the unruly promptings of my own heart. There is a passage in Deuteronomy that says what to do if thou seest among the captives a beautiful woman and hast a desire unto her that thou wouldst have her to thy wife . . . This I see now as an expression of a more primitive understanding, coming from a savage people struggling towards a sense of God. It would surely be an unchristian deed to take a woman from an inferior people and religion, out of the mere lust of one's eyes, knowing that in her eyes thee had done no sin, and suffered no dereliction of one's principles.
2 I gained the impression, then and later, that it's not the Indian custom to hold one another's gaze. At first I thought them indirect in their dealings because of this. But when I got home again, I found the straight gaze of Friends quite intractable, and it was hard to meet their eyes, whereas it had never been hard before.
3 And indeed I think there was nothing; the Lord God who takes heed of the smallest matter among the least of his children cares not for the perils of the world, or the divisions that men have made among themselves. He gave us the instincts that we have; in his eyes we are all neighbours, I believe, and made to love one another accordingly.
CHAPTER 17
I CAME BACK TO BROILS ENOUGH TO MAKE ME WANT to turn tail straight back to Bois Blanc. The moment I walked into McGulpin's house Anne dropped her spoon, and embraced me tearfully, clutching both my arms with floury fingers. ‘Ah, m'sieu, m'sieu! Ah mon Dieu! On veut vous voir immédiatement au fort! Tout le monde vous a cherché! J'ai dit au lieutenant que vous éttiez allé à Bois Blanc avec Stéphan, et maintenant tout est devenu encore pire! Que dieu vous aide, m'sieu!!‘
‘Quietly, friend, quietly! It's all right. Here I am. Now please, parlez-moi lentement! Répétez, s'il vous plaît!‘
Gradually it came out. I was wanted at the fort because everyone on the island had been brought in to swear an oath of allegiance to the British crown. Nearly all the islanders had done this, but while the oath was being administered, someone had mentioned me to Captain Roberts, and told him I'd hired Stéphan to take me across to Bois Blanc. I'd been expected back the same evening, and hadn't been seen since. Suspicion was founded upon the fact that I was a Quaker, and that had led the invading army to assume that I must be an American – nay, not only an American, but a subversive one at that.
I calmed Anne as best I could. ‘Je resolverai l'affaire maintenant, tout de suite! Je vais au fort. Don't worry! I've done nothing wrong – pas de crime – je suis un sujet du roi d'Angleterre. We have habeas corpus. Je vais.‘
She wasn't convinced, but I had no time to waste. For the first time I climbed the ramp up the cliff face to the fort of Mackinac, and reached a guardroom at the gate in the wall.
‘Friend, my name is Mark Greenhow. I'm told Charles Roberts wishes to see me at once.’
’Captain Roberts to you’ – but they jumped up, and called to a sentry within the gates. I was escorted at once into the fort by two soldiers who walked one step behind me, as if I were their prisoner, which was, as I remarked to them civilly, not at all the case.
I was not taken to the commander, but into a long low building. There was a wooden wall inside, and a dark passage beyond. It seemed not like a commander's quarters at all, but I had no chance to argue before I was seized by the arms from behind and thrust into complete darkness. A stout wooden door was slammed behind me, and I heard the bolts shot home.
There was no point in protesting, or banging against the door. Silence would be the better part. I guess it disconcerted them; presently I heard the footsteps go away and the outside door slam shut. After that there was no light at all. I spent a considerable time feeling my way over my new surroundings. I was in a little cell, barely six feet by four, with solid wooden walls and door. The floor was hard-packed earth. I sat down, and took stock of my situation.
My ancestor and namesake was one of the first Friends (he was first convinced, they say, when George Fox came to Mungrisdale in 1653). This Mark Greenhow lay seven years in Carlisle jail, and was never a hale man again, but he was a valiant witness for the Truth through all his sufferings. The Light Within burned ever, though he saw not the light of day in all that time. During the hours I spent locked in
my cell on Fort Mackinac I dwelt much upon his example. I thought about all the past Friends who suffered for their witness. I thought about the Meeting at Mosedale, and how I was a member thereof, and how if they knew my present plight they would hold me in that Light which no earthly power can douse.
From that I fell to thinking of my own shortcomings, and indeed there was a grievous weight upon my conscience. Stéphan and I had left Bois Blanc in thick fog. As soon as we'd paddled away from the beach the enchantment of the island had slipped away from me, and in the cold morning I slowly came to view what I had done.
It had come out at some point in our talk that it was Pakané's seventeenth summer. (Loic had been married two years, I knew.) Waase'aaban was her younger sister. I found myself calculating numbers in my head, while a cold sweat soaked my back under my shirt, for all that I was paddling hard. Her seventeenth summer . . . in which case Pakané was sixteen years old. Waase'aaban could not be more than fifteen, and suppose a child was normally nursed for a year (I was assuming that humans are like cows in this respect), then it was unlikely that Waase'aaban would have been conceived before Pakané was a year old. (Alan had told me that Indian families do not breed as profligately as the British poor.) Which would make Waase'aaban fourteen years old. That would figure – she was as slight and light-footed as a child: for all that she had the body of a woman, it must needs be a very young one. I felt a chill emptiness in the pit of my stomach. I thought of the young maids in our Monthly Meeting; at fourteen they were children. I would sooner have cut off my right hand than touch any one of them, I thought, and rightly so.
And yet I could not recollect those nights on the shore of Bois Blanc without a pang of delight, even circumstanced as I now was. But as I caught myself going over past pleasure in my mind, I would again be plunged into despair for the evil I had done. ‘Twas the culmination of a desire that had engaged my imagination for – what? – twelve years and more. I'd accepted long ago there was naught I could do to banish lascivious thoughts: if I refused to acknowledge them when waking, they would haunt me the more assiduously in my dreams, and that no man can prevent. I was always convinced that I would marry. Moreover, I couldn't deny that for years past I'd never attended another Meeting, nor visited among Friends, without hoping to find the maid I dreamed of. In my imagination she was lovely, intelligent, virtuous, and at the same most eager to be bedded – in the married state, of course. I can't in truth say that I never looked at a woman who wasn't a Member of our Religious Society, nor that I'd never dreamed of one, sleeping or waking. There'd been more than a touch of wistfulness, too, in that: obviously in my rational moments I could never admit to such imaginings. There's many a pretty girl in Cumberland, but not for such as me.
It is better to marry than to burn; ay, but find me a wife before thee castigates me for being true to my own nature. The Lord God created us, man and woman created he them, in such a manner that a man has no choice but to burn. As I sat in my prison cell, I could not rail against the Lord God, who had created me in his own image, and who was in my present strait my sole defender, but I was never a great apostle of Paul of Tarsus, and if he'd turned up in my cell (in which he would have felt quite at home, I supposed) I'd have been sorely tempted to give him a piece of my mind. But what I couldn't get over, and returned to again and again, was how easily the sin was done. I had thought it such a great matter – the deed itself had seemed separated from all things possible by so great a chasm – and yet, when it came to it, it was the easiest and most natural thing in the world. After her first hesitations, Waase'aaban had been as eager as I was. The impossible thing, I realised now, would have been to have stopped myself. To my utmost shame I had not even tried.
Now, in the darkness of the prison house, I had ample opportunity to repent me. But the terrible thing was I could not. There remained an unholy joy in my heart which I could not quench. There be three things which are too wonderful for me: yea four, which I know: the way of an eagle in the air, the way of a serpent upon a rock, the way of a ship in the midst of the sea, and the way of a man with a maid. Three nights I had stayed on Bois Blanc, and in the last two I had acquired memories enough of earthly bliss to last a lifetime – for surely they are with me yet – and without doubt an inward joy enough to take my mind from my present captivity – because in my optimistic moments I doubted not that when Alan came to hear of my plight he would have the decency to come and make them release me.
But no one came, and once again I was plunged into an internal gloom that matched my outward state. I tried to pray, and could not. I began thinking about my father, and what he would say in such a pass as this, and that led me to recall certain passages from Fox's Journal and from the Bible that offer comfort to those in adversity. And so I bethought me of Joseph's brothers, lying in prison in far-off Egypt, whence they had only come in order to save their own families from starvation, and how Joseph addressed them, saying, send one of you, and let him fetch your brother, and ye shall be kept in prison, that your words may be proved, whether there be any truth in you, or else by the life of Pharaoh surely ye are spies. Thus it was that when the soldiers came again at last, I was prepared for them, and said immediately, ‘Friends, I ask thee one thing, which is to fetch my brother Alan Mackenzie, and have him speak to your commander.’
They gave me no answer, but marched me outside. I was very thirsty by this time, and I'd like to have relieved myself, but I had no chance to ask. The sun blinded me, but at least it told me the time. It had been early morning when I came in; now the afternoon was drawing late. I was taken across a wide trampled space into another log building. This one had big windows and open doors. I was marched into a room where a sallow, elderly man in uniform sat at a desk filled with papers, a lieutenant at his side. Another military man was engaged in writing at a desk in the corner. There were two sentries. The only man in civilian clothes stood before the desk with his back to me. My guards shoved me into a corner to wait. I leaned against the wall, for I felt an unaccustomed faintness, and watched the scene unfolding before me.
‘Ambrose Davenport, do you still refuse to sign this oath?’ Captain Roberts’ voice startled me. There was no power or triumph in it. The man sounded utterly exhausted. In contrast, the civilian's voice rang out clear and true: ‘No, sir, I will not sign. I was born in America, and am determined, at all hazards, to live and die an American citizen. I will not sign.’
‘In that case, Mr Davenport, I have no alternative but to arrest you as a danger to the public peace. You'll leave the island with the United States army, to be returned to American territory at Fort Detroit.’
Alan told me later that Davenport left a farm, a wife and six children, but nothing of that was mentioned now. He was marched away under guard, and I was led to stand before Charles Roberts. Close to, he looked deathly ill, a sickly yellow in colour, and gaunt about the eyes. The lieutenant spoke to him in a subdued mutter.
‘Oh, yes. Your name, sir?’
‘Mark Greenhow.’
‘Citizenship?’
‘British.’
‘British, eh?’ He looked at his lieutenant. ‘I understood this fellow was an American?’
More muttering. I waited.
‘Then what did we detain him for? . . . Bois Blanc . . . What of it? . . . He came back of his own free will, then? . . . Mr Greenhow, how long have you lived at Mackinac?’
‘I don't live at Mackinac. I came here from Sainte Marie du Sault less than three weeks ago.’
‘You were on Bois Blanc?’
‘Yes, I went to see someone about hiring a canoe.’
‘Oh, for God's sake!’ The man's face was drawn with pain. ‘What kind of storm in a teacup is this? Very well, Mr Greenhow, we can end this most quickly if I administer the oath now, and leave you free to go your way.’
‘I cannot swear.’
‘What?’
‘I cannot swear. Our Lord Jesus Christ gave us the commandment “swear not at all. but let your c
ommunication be, Yea, yea; Nay, nay: for whatsoever is more than these cometh of evil”. Therefore I cannot swear.’
‘And if I command you to testify to your allegiance to His Britannic Majesty King George?’
‘If that is what thee asks, I can tell thee I'm the king's loyal subject.’ I was moved to add, ‘It's been said to the king himself – not this king, I grant thee – that “we by those that have tried us are found to be truer in our promises than others by their oaths. That which we speak in the truth of our hearts is more than what they swear.” ‘
‘That may be so. But what if, as the chief officer of this territory in war-time, I command you now to swear?’
‘I cannot swear. And if this territory is now Upper Canada, I know it to be a law agreed by John Graves Simcoe when he was governor, that members of my Religious Society need not swear the oath of allegiance. And that is the law in England too.’
‘So what if I ship you off to Detroit with the other three civilians who won't take the oath?’ The man looked like to faint, he seemed so ill.
‘Then I will be in God's hand. But as a subject of the king, I would as lief not be forced into a hostile country.’ I remembered my contemplations in the prison. ‘If thee wishes any man to vouch for me, thee could ask my brother-in-law, Alan Mackenzie.’
‘Oh, for God's sake take him away! That accent isn't put on; can't you tell? Why didn't you say who you were at once, Mr Greenhow? I know all about you. Mackenzie was here two days ago. I should have guessed . . . No, no, for God's sake, take him away. And leave him alone, d'you hear? Mr Greenhow, you've no time to waste. Mackenzie's been waiting for you this two days or more. I don't know why you've kept him waiting. Goodbye, sir! For pity's sake, take him away.’
I wasn't sorry to leave the fort. I never entered it again, I'm glad to say. I fairly ran down the ramp and back to McGulpin's house, where to my astonishment I found Alan sitting at the table writing. He was no less surprised to see me than I to see him. It turned out he'd been looking for me everywhere, until it finally occurred to him to ask Anne, who told him I'd gone off with Stéphan. ‘You might have told me. I thought you wanted to leave immediately?’
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