Council of Fire

by Eric Flint

“You assumed.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your people are as quick to assume as the English. My people are the People of the Longhouse; my nation is Oneida, though I was born among the Susquehannocks. We have no princes nor kings, and we bow neither to the English king nor the Onontio of the French.

  “But none of that matters, Frenchman. You have no king.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “Not believing changes nothing.” Skenadoa reached into his pack and withdrew a thin clay pipe and a small, battered leather pouch. He packed the pipe and lit it from the fire, then took a long draw and handed it to D’Egremont. As he let the smoke slowly drift out, he continued, “The world of your nation is gone, Frenchman. Who is your king now that your king is gone? Is it Montcalm?”

  “The marquis is not a king.”

  “Well then.” Skenadoa extended his hand for the pipe. D’Egremont looked at it, shrugged and pulled in some smoke, then handed it back. “You are in need of a new king then.”

  “But I have one.”

  “No,” Skenadoa said, smoking again. “No. You do not. This is the world you live in now. Here you live, here you will die. What do you not understand? Even your marquis understands.”

  “I have not come to terms with it.”

  “I thought you were a warrior.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “A warrior does not pretend that the things are different than they actually are. When the world has changed, you need to change with it.” He handed D’Egremont the pipe again. “The Great Spirit has cracked the world and your land is gone.”

  “Perhaps not forever.”

  “Forever is a deep, dark forest that has no exit. Don’t think about forever, Frenchman. Concentrate on today and tomorrow. Yesterday is gone; forever is unknown. You need a king. Who shall it be?”

  “I . . . I’m not sure how to answer that. I want to say, Louis, the fifteenth of the name, but if I accept what you say, then I do not know.”

  Skenadoa nodded solemnly. “You begin to see.”

  D’Egremont and Skenadoa talked at length as they walked along the trail, drawing closer and closer to Johnson Hall. For his part, the tall native became more forthcoming after what seemed to be hostility; it was as if he had discharged his responsibility to be severe, and now that he had evaluated the worth of his traveling companion, it was no longer necessary.

  “This is a beautiful land,” D’Egremont said as they crested a hill.

  “It is,” the native agreed. “Do you find it more so than the land of your birth?”

  “I grew up in the north part of France,” D’Egremont answered. “Every place—every valley, every hill, every river—has been walked upon or navigated or cultivated for hundreds of years. This place seems virginal, like no foot has trod upon it.”

  “Many feet have walked here, since the Great Spirit created it,” Skenadoa said. “Our land is as old as your former one. We simply have not tried to bend it to our will.”

  “I see that. Many Europeans think that is good and sufficient reason to take it away from you.”

  “They like to call us savages and primitives as well. It is not how brothers should treat each other.”

  “It is a misunderstanding.”

  Skenadoa turned aside and spat. “No, it is not. In my great-great-grandfather’s time it was a misunderstanding. Now it is ignorance and hatred. The white people want all of this, but they must learn that they cannot have it. I understand why Guyasuta and his friends do what they do: it comes from anger.”

  “It doesn’t make it less evil.”

  “Who is to say?”

  “You are. And I am, and the marquis, and this English prince. There is good and there is evil. Do you think your Great Spirit approves of all these things we have seen?”

  Skenadoa shrugged but did not answer.

  “What do you want?” D’Egremont asked after several moments of silence. “What do your people want?”

  “It depends on who you ask.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “I want the world to be the way it was, summer and winter. But it cannot ever again be thus. What I want instead is to live in peace—all of us, every tribe, every nation. The world is big enough for that.”

  “What of this Guyasuta?”

  “He wants something else.”

  By the time the two men reached Johnson Hall, D’Egremont had been informed of recent events: Sir William Johnson’s disappearance, the fight between the Stone Coats and the Highlanders, and the confrontation with the Oniate at the gate.

  None of it, and nothing else Skenadoa could have described, prepared him for Molly Brant.

  At first, he felt wrong-footed at being received by a woman—and a native woman at that. He assumed, and the Marquis had assumed, that Johnson Hall was in the custody and control of Sir William Johnson, Britain’s ambassador extraordinary. But Skenadoa had informed him en route that the man had left Johnson Hall with an expedition to the west and never returned.

  The Iroquois were matriarchal after a fashion, he knew, but this was for all intents and purposes a war, and he expected a war chief to be in charge . . . perhaps someone like Skenadoa. Yet in the moment neither he, nor any other Indian at Johnson Hall, seemed to claim pride of place over the young woman. He sensed something about her, an aura—a presence—that struck him at once.

  “Lieutenant D’Egremont,” she said, offering him a polite nod. She had a group of Indian braves around her, who seemed significantly less polite, but said nothing. As for Skenadoa, he stood beside his traveling companion of the past few days with his arms crossed, saying nothing.

  Another test, D’Egremont thought.

  “Mademoiselle,” he answered. “It is my honor to be received by you. I bear a letter for someone I am told is your guest.”

  “Who would that be?”

  “Prince Edward of Great Britain.”

  “I see. May I ask the nature of this letter? You come here in the company of our elder brother Skenadoa, and presumably under the flag of truce; but you are a representative of a foreign power with which he—and we—are at war.”

  “Mademoiselle, I—”

  “I have not finished, Lieutenant. Your country has been an ally of the western Iroquois, including the Cayuga and the Seneca, and has given warm support to the tribes in the Ohio Country. I have no way to know that France is not an ally of Guyasuta himself—and therefore our enemy.”

  D’Egremont did not immediately answer; he wanted to gather his thoughts and to be assured that Molly Brant had truly finished speaking.

  “You have a right to be suspicious,” he said at last. “You also are within your rights to ask what message I bear. Yet you must understand that the communication between his Lordship the Marquis de Montcalm and his Highness the Prince is a private letter—” he almost continued the sentence with the words between gentlemen, but somehow restrained himself—“and it would be inappropriate for either of us to read it.”

  “So you do not know what it says?”

  “I have my own guess, but no, I have not seen it and the marquis did not confide in me. He merely asked me to present it to the prince in person.”

  “I could simply have it taken from you.” She lifted her chin, as if suggesting that she planned to order just that.

  “Mademoiselle,” D’Egremont said, “I would prefer that you not do so. I am an emissary from a civilized nation. I have no expectation that I would be received in other than a civilized manner.” In other words, he thought, I trust you are not a savage. “I cannot imagine that Monsieur le Prince would keep the message from his allies; but it would be most appropriate for him to see it first.”

  For several moments D’Egremont was not sure how she would respond: anger, violence, or merely hauteur; instead, she nodded slowly.

  “Very well, Lieutenant. Let us escort you to Prince Edward. Perhaps we will all learn something.”

  Chapter 39

  Someth
ing on the wind

  New York

  Gustavus sensed rather than saw the tension in the town of New York as he made his way on errand for his master. Everyone seemed to be on edge; he felt as if he was being watched as he made his way through the narrow, cobbled streets. He was even followed, on two separate occasions, by men he did not wish to be stopped by. Fortunately, he was familiar with towns with narrow streets and was able to evade them.

  Lieutenant Pascal had given him a small amount of silver to obtain stores for Namur. It was a risk—there wasn’t a lot of hard currency floating around the town, especially in the possession of a young black man, especially a slave—but it showed good faith, an offer to pay instead of simply presenting a promise from Admiral Boscawen. The admiral’s desire to make friends in New York was something Gustavus wanted to help with, if only in a small way.

  Chandlers and shipfitters kept their businesses on the wharves and docks along the East River; Namur was anchored near the tip of the island, just south of Broad Street, and his destination—a shipfitter’s shop belonging to a man named Dunn—was nearly at the northernmost place. Gustavus found his way there after some trial and error; as he stepped into the shop, a middle-aged heavy-set black man emerged from the back room. When he saw Gustavus he closed his eyes for a moment and then focused, frowning, directly on the young man. There was another black man in the shop with broad shoulders; his back was turned to Gustavus, but even so the young man felt a sense of menace from him.

  “I do not know you.”

  “No,” Gustavus agreed. “I am from the ship of Admiral Boscawen. My name is—they call me—Gustavus.”

  “Ah.”

  “Is there some problem, brother?”

  “No,” the other man said. “But I am very careful who I call brother. People listen. White people especially. So tell me, Gustavus—are you a free man, or a slave?”

  “I am a slave,” Gustavus said. “But I hope to be free.”

  “So do all slaves. Let me tell you, Brother, there is merit in being a freedman, but most men do not call you their equal.”

  “Perhaps that will change.”

  The other smiled, showing white teeth. “Things have already changed, Gustavus. Or did you not know?”

  “I know better than you might think—” Gustavus wanted to say brother again, but hesitated, not sure how to complete his sentence.

  The large man turned and walked past Gustavus and out of the shop, passing so close that they almost touched. Gustavus felt for a moment that the other might thrust him out of the way and braced for a shove or a slap—but nothing happened, and after a moment he was gone.

  “Absalom. Absalom Blackburn. A freedman of New York Colony, if you please. And don’t you worry none about Jupiter. He’s all scowl.”

  “I thought he was going to strike me.”

  “He might have done, but you weren’t directly in his way. Best you keep it that way.”

  Gustavus nodded. “You are a freedman, Absalom?”

  “Yes. I’m not bonded, but employed by Master Elijah Dunn, shipfitter and dry-goods dealer.” He gestured toward the back room from which he had emerged. “And, no doubt, enjoying a fine afternoon in some public house, lamenting his losses.”

  “I see,” Gustavus said. “I was sent to obtain some supplies.” He reached into his wallet and drew out a slip of paper; as he did so, two copper pennies came out with it, rolling along the floor to land at the feet of Absalom Blackburn. Gustavus took a step forward, but Absalom had already bent down to pick up the coins.

  “Fine coins, boy. How did you come by them?”

  “My master sent them with me as payment.” Gustavus extended the paper and Absalom took it, and ran his finger down the written list, his lips moving slowly as he read.

  “All of this is going to cost more than two pennies.”

  “I have more.”

  “And how do you know . . . ” Absalom set the paper down on a large barrel, and carefully laid the pennies on top of it. “How do you know, Gustavus, that I would not just slit your throat—” he made a gesture with his thumb across his bare neck—“and take it from you, no one the wiser?”

  “I don’t.” Gustavus drew himself upright and took a step back. “But you might lose an eye while trying. Might be that it wouldn’t be worth your trouble.”

  “And you’d be missed from your ship, I’d wager.”

  “I would be missed,” Gustavus agreed. “It might be easier if you just gave me what I asked for and took my money than to make this more difficult.” He said it levelly but was ready for anything the other man might try.

  After a tense moment, Absalom laughed—not heartily, but in a sad, wistful way. “I suppose you’re right, boy. You know,” he added, picking up the pennies and the paper, “you remind me of a friend of mine. She always says things like that—‘Absalom,’ she says, ‘it would be easier if . . . ’ and ‘Absalom, why don’t you just . . . ’ ” He tucked the pennies into a pocket and took down a large box from a shelf and opened it. “And she says to me, ‘Absalom, you get better custom with an open hand than a clenched fist.’”

  “She sounds like a wise woman,” Gustavus said.

  “Oh, she is that,” Absalom answered. “Even more so now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the comet, boy. Haven’t you felt it? Something on the wind. Something in the ground. It won’t be like before, when the white folks were taken by the madness.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Madness,” Absalom said. He took things out of the box and laid them on the counter. “A few loose fears, a few lies—and good men are burned to death. But that won’t be happening again.”

  “I know what he meant.” Pascal held the needle up close and carefully threaded it. “He was talking about the slave revolt—well, the conspiracy.”

  “Master?”

  “Conspiracy. A sort of—” he slowly pulled the thread through, and then took up the trousers in need of mending. “Well. Almost twenty years ago, Gustavus, there was a story that a group of slaves and free blacks cooked up a plan—a conspiracy—to set fires in Manhattan. An Irish girl gave evidence in court, and there were these terrible trials. Officials here were so fearful that they killed many Negroes.” He set the trousers aside and looked up at his slave. “Some of them were burned at the stake . . . and from what I read of it all, the girl may have made all of it up to save herself.”

  “God would not smile on such things, Master,” Gustavus said. “Surely.”

  “I wonder what great plan the Lord has for us, Gustavus,” Pascal said. “So many things are unsure. When the city officials thought that Negroes—especially slaves—were ready to burn down the town, the tensions between Negroes and poor whites were at their height. But those tensions may not have ever gone away. Now that no more people are coming from Europe, or from Africa for that matter, they are going to have to learn to live with each other.”

  The lieutenant rubbed his eyes as if to clear away a vision and let in another. “What did you make of this Absalom?”

  Gustavus thought for a moment. “I’m . . . not sure, Master. He was very serious in some ways, but I wasn’t sure what he might do next. He was . . . ”

  “Unpredictable.”

  Gustavus nodded. “And he talked about change, ‘something on the wind.’ Is that like the Place of Bone? Did he mean that kind of change?”

  “I don’t know. It sounds as if he didn’t say everything he knew, as if he was hiding something.”

  “He talked about his friend, a wise woman.”

  “She sounds like someone worth getting to know. Do you think he might introduce you?”

  “I—I hadn’t thought about it, Master. He might, or he might be suspicious.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of Namur, Master. He . . . when I first went in Master Dunn’s shop, Absalom’s first words to me were that he didn’t know me. It’s like he knew everyone in New York, and I was some
one he didn’t recognize.”

  “Or he knew every Negro in New York. It reminds me of that Captain Fayerweather we met down south, who wanted us to put you overboard because all Negroes talked to all others.”

  “I remember,” Gustavus said. “I remember very well.”

  “I know you do.” Pascal smiled. “You know that there was never any danger I would allow that to happen to you.”

  Gustavus didn’t answer; his master was a good and caring man, more so than some he had served—but any slave knew that any master at any time could make any decision.

  “You’re back, boy,” Absalom said. “So you’re not afraid of me.”

  “I’m plenty afraid of you. But my master sent me back for other things. Was Master Dunn pleased with our money?”

  “It’s as good as anyone else’s.” Gustavus handed Absalom the slip of paper, and he ran his thumb along it again. “Sure enough he’ll like more of it.”

  “You were telling me before about your friend.”

  “I was?”

  “You said you had a friend who told you that an open hand was better than a closed fist. I’d surely like to meet her.”

  Absalom frowned. “Oh, and why is that?”

  “Because you’re afraid of her. Anyone you’re afraid of I’d surely like to meet.”

  Absalom reached his hand out as if he wanted to cuff Gustavus, but the younger man was skillful at dodging out of the way of blows, and the hand never reached its target.

  “Not afraid of her, no,” Absalom said. “Respect isn’t the same as fear, boy.”

  “Can I meet her then?”

  “You want to meet her, or your master wants to meet her? You a spy for him?”

  “Why are you always so suspicious, Absalom? You think I mean you harm? I’m just a—”

  Absalom reached his hand out again, much faster this time, and grabbed Gustavus by the shirt-front and brought him close. Gustavus was immediately afraid, but the other man didn’t hurt him. Instead he whispered, “You’re not ‘just’ anything. You’re never ‘just’ anything, boy. That’s what the white folks want us to believe—that’s how they keep us down, make us think we’re less than we are.