by Eric Flint
And there will be a new dispensation, he said to himself as he went down the stairs. I have had quite enough of New York’s so-called authorities.
By the time he exited the building and came back out onto the Common, he saw that the three grootslang had reappeared. The giants were more horrible-looking than ever, coated as they were with blood—even some body parts, which they hadn’t bothered to brush off.
Thankfully, Boscawen could see that Colonel Washington had reappeared in the square also. He and Gustavus were guiding a horse-drawn cart onto the square. The two marines who had gone with them were following, their muskets at the ready.
Those muskets wouldn’t do the least bit of good against the monsters that Minerva had summoned. But they’d have been enough to deter any would-be robbers they might have encountered along the way.
There was an exchange between Minerva and the grootslang. As before, Boscawen thought that they were not speaking the same language. But, despite that, the woman seemed able to communicate with them well enough.
One of the grootslang moved toward the cart. Gustavus had already unhitched the horse, and he stepped away from the conveyance in a manner that could be called brisk. Washington and his two soldiers had already done the same.
The monster pulled open the crate resting in the cart, examined the contents, and issued what Boscawen hoped was a hoot of satisfaction.
Apparently so. All three of the grootslang surrounded the cart, obscuring it from view. Then, suddenly, they disappeared, along with the cart. In the place where they had been, three bean shoots were sprouting from the soil of the Common.
“I recommend uprooting and destroying those bean shoots, Admiral,” said Minerva. “The beans won’t taste good and . . . there could be other problems for anyone who eats them.”
That seemed like excellent advice. “Corporal Hammond, see to it. Don’t touch them with your bare hands and make sure you burn everything.”
He turned back to Minerva. The admiral was eager to question the two youngsters further, but he had an even more pressing matter to attend to first. The reward—more like a ransom—he’d just paid the grootslang had left his coffers bare, and Messier and LaGèndiere were gone from the city for an uncertain duration. Under the circumstances, the suggestion made by Messier and LaGèndiere before they left that Boscawen seek Minerva’s help with the creation of more specie was . . .
He thought it might be unwise, still. But he no longer had any choice.
“I have something I need to show you,” he said to her. “Back at my headquarters.”
Reluctantly, he added: “Absalom should probably come as well.”
After he finished his explanation, back in his office, Minerva smiled and shook her head.
“I will give you what help I can, Admiral. But for this—anything that involves money—you really need to have Absalom’s . . . well, ‘skills’ isn’t quite the word. Let us say ‘aptitudes’ instead.”
Boscawen looked at the black man, who was grinning outright. As uneasy as he was at asking Minerva for her assistance in the project, the prospect of working with Absalom was considerably more worrisome.
But, again, he could not see where he had any choice. The most he could manage was a feeble statement of uncertainty.
“But—but— I thought his . . . aptitudes, as you call them, simply involve matters of luck and chance.”
“And what else is money, Admiral?” said Absalom. The grin never wavered.
Settling the issues involving the two young negroes, after he was done interrogating them, was simple.
As it turned out, since York’s owner and his son—who’d been his only close relative, the man being a widower—were both deceased, the admiral had only to negotiate with the blacksmith’s cousins. By and large a feckless lot, they were quite willing to sell the young slave to the admiral for a reasonable price.
As for Mrs. Eastgate, once Boscawen forced the obstreperous woman to admit that Coffey was simply one of her employees, not an indentured servant, the issue was settled. Coffey gave notice—two minutes was sufficient enough, the admiral decreed—and was promptly employed by the Royal Navy in whatever capacity might be needed.
Boscawen still had no military force large enough to force his will upon New York—not even the city, much less the colony as a whole—but he wasn’t terribly concerned about that problem.
First, because he had a monopoly on the colony’s supply of money.
Second, because he had the aid of the city’s most powerful sorceress. Even if most of them had stayed in hiding, enough of New York’s residents had seen the grootslang deal with the sasabonsam to make sure that tale spread widely.
And as it turned out, there was a third factor at play. While it seemed all the sasabonsam had been dealt with by the grootslang, the same was not true of the giant spiders whom Jupiter had apparently also summoned. By accident, Minerva believed. The blacksmith had possessed a great talent for magic, but he’d grossly overestimated his ability to control that talent.
After the first child was devoured by one of the hideous creatures, Minerva became the most popular inhabitant of the city. She and she alone, it seemed, could deal with the monstrosities easily and simply. The militia should have been able to do so as well—a single musket volley would splatter one of the spiders quite nicely—but their morale could at best be described as shaky.
Other terms were used more often.
Jittery, wobbling, faltering, quivery, tremorous, unsound—there were quite a few. Some were downright unkind, especially the ones spoken in taverns. Craven, gutless, yellow-bellied, lily-livered. “Useless as tits on a bull” was heard often as well.
It was noteworthy, however, that none of those who used the terms—not a one of them—volunteered themselves to join the militia.
Part VI:
Determination
August, 1759
Natura nihil frustra facit.
(Nature does nothing in vain.)
—Leucippus
Chapter 54
We have all the medicine
The assembled chiefs were wary of Guyasuta. The story of the example he had made of the chief who had attacked early had spread throughout the war bands, to the point that even the bravest walked softly and carefully around him.
But everyone—from the eldest chief to the youngest brave—was terrified of Sganyodaiyo.
Unlike most of the warriors, who moved on foot, Sganyodaiyo traveled on a small pony; he was wrapped in a long robe with a hood that covered his head. Only a few spoke to him—Guyasuta, of course, but also Kaintwakon, Sganyodaiyo’s younger brother. It was said that his eyes were deep pools and no man could hold his gaze.
It had taken almost five days for all the tribal groups to gather in the wood west of the whites’ army camp. Some consisted of fifty or more braves, experienced war bands who had traveled and raised the tomahawk together; others were twos and threes from small villages across the western part of the lands of the Haudenosaunee. Some had taken up the cause voluntarily, following the lead of the red man’s new champion, while others had joined to save their village from the threats of the Dry-Hands. Those shamans walked freely through the camps, shunned and avoided like diseased men—which, in a way, they were.
But of the supernatural things that Sganyodaiyo commanded—the Floating Heads and other things—there was no sign. It was as if the creatures were following out of sight, a silent, ominous menace hanging in a dark place just nearby.
Sganyodaiyo’s tent had been pitched near the top of a hill, away from every other. Only Kaintwakon entered it; all the other braves stayed clear.
Deep in the night of the new moon, with the sky full of stars, Sganyodaiyo emerged from his tent to stand in the dark. Five Dry-Hands had come up the hill to stand in a row before the banked campfire, in answer to the summons that had passed through the camp. Most of the warriors were asleep, resting for the following day, which, it was said, would be the final march to bat
tle with the whites.
The Dry-Hands stood silent, their enchanted hands concealed in the folds of their robes, waiting for direction from the powerful shaman.
“It is time,” Sganyodaiyo said without preface, “to perform the Dark Dance and call forth the Jo-Ge-Oh.”
“The Little People?” one of the Dry-Hands said. “How can they help us?”
“They are angry,” Sganyodaiyo answered, not looking at the questioner. “We will use that anger.”
“They will want gifts.”
“Oh, yes,” Sganyodaiyo answered. “They will want many gifts, and we will offer them what they want.”
Sganyodaiyo threw back his hood and shrugged off his outer robe. In the dim light of the fire, his face was not clearly visible, but it looked unearthly, devoid of expression and emotion, like someone who was detached from reality. Haltingly at first, and then with sinuous motions, he began to slowly dance around the fires, chanting in an ancient version of the Seneca tongue. The Dry-Hands followed in turn, copying his motions and, after a short time, his words—repetitive, sonorous, not musical but atonal and difficult to hear.
The dance went on and on, for what seemed like hours but which might have been only a few minutes. Those who dared to watch from beyond the fire light later said that they thought they saw figures in the fire dancing as well, keeping time with Sganyodaiyo and the shamans as they moved.
At a signal from Sganyodaiyo they began to slow and then stop. He gestured toward a stand of trees, where there was movement in the underbrush; a group of four figures, who were each scarcely two feet high, emerged, approaching cautiously.
Sganyodaiyo walked slowly toward them; they took halting steps backward, but Sganyodaiyo stopped approaching and spread his hands wide.
“I am An-De-Le, leader of this band. Who . . . who summons us?”
He spoke his name and his lineage in brief. Had this been a longhouse or a gathering of chiefs or mothers, he might have traced it at length—but the Jo-Ge-Oh would probably not care.
“When the broom-star fell, little Brothers, you felt the change in the world. I call you to join us in our great Work, to drive the unwelcome and offensive whites from the world the Great Spirit made.”
“We have no interest in the quarrels of the Big People,” An-De-Le said. “Your fight is not our fight.” He looked around the clearing, focusing on the Dry-Hands. “And we do not clasp hands with Oniate.” He said the last word with obvious disgust.
“They are servants of our great Chief,” Sganyodaiyo said. “And so am I. But come, little Brother. This is no time to sit quietly by. It is a time of great change—surely you feel that.”
“I do,” An-De-Le answered. “We all do. We felt the passage and the change. It frightened us.”
“It is a frightening thing,” Sganyodaiyo said. He squatted down on his haunches, and even then, he was a foot taller than An-De-Le and the others. The little man took another step back, fear in his eyes. “But we will take your fear away.”
“What do you offer?”
“A place where you will be safe. A place of your own, where you can hunt and fish, away from the quarrels of the Big People. The whites, who call you demons and evil spirits, will be gone.”
“The whites are everywhere,” An-De-Le said. “They are even more intrusive than the reds.”
“Many of our people have turned from the old ways,” Sganyodaiyo answered. “But I can make a promise that this time is over. We will respect the lands of our Brothers.”
“Big people only call on us when they need help with the weather, or with their planting. And they only call on us when no one is watching, so that their own gods do not hear them. I do not think you care for our advice on the rain or the planting; and you make no secret of the Dark Dance.
“So what do you want of us?”
Sganyodaiyo smiled, an expression that seemed completely devoid of warmth. “Little Brother, I want you to take up the tomahawk.”
“Against who? The whites? They will kill us with their firesticks and with their medicine.”
“I can make it so that their firesticks cannot hurt you. And they have no medicine, An-De-Le. We have all the medicine.”
“I don’t believe you.” The little warrior placed a hand on the hatchet at his belt, and jutted his chin at Sganyodaiyo. “For sun after sun the white men have advanced into our lands, taking what they wanted, chopping down trees and destroying hunting grounds. They have plenty of medicine, and they will destroy the Jo-Ge-Oh. You—you raise up the Oniate, and it must be you who has called up the Maneto as well. You are not of the Great Spirit if you do these things, and we will not take up the hatchet and follow you.”
“You refuse to take my hand.”
“We are not like you, shaman. We are afraid of many things, and we are afraid of what you do.”
Sganyodaiyo considered this for several moments, then stood up, raising himself to his full height. An-De-Le’s eyes held Sganyodaiyo’s glance as it rose to high above his head.
“We have performed the Dark Dance to bring you forward, An-De-Le. You must know that, having called you forth, I cannot permit you to return except as my ally.”
“Do you seek to frighten me with your threats, Big Brother?”
“You already said you were afraid of everything.”
“No,” An-De-Le replied. “I did not say I was afraid of everything. I am of the people of the Great Spirit, descended from the Sky Woman, a child of the earth. I am afraid of many things.
“But I am not afraid of you.”
“You should be,” Sganyodaiyo said, absently. “You should be. I can find other Jo-Ge-Oh who will join me, An-De-Le. I do not need you.”
“Harm me,” An-De-Le said, “and all Jo-Ge-Oh will know that you have done so. Kill me, and the Jo-Ge-Oh will turn away from the Big Brothers forever. Is that what you want, Big Brother? Truly?”
Sganyodaiyo did not answer, but balled his fists in anger.
An-De-Le and his companions began to slowly back away, their hands on the hilts of their tomahawks. A dozen steps and they were gone, absent as if they had never been.
Sganyodaiyo stood stiff and still for several moments more, then turned to the fire and raised his hands. It roared up to a height above his head, and made a terrible noise as if something within it was crying out in agony. Then it flashed once and was gone, cloaking the clearing in darkness.
No one saw Sganyodaiyo walk away, but after a moment he too was gone.
Chapter 55
He is still a man
“I do not know that name,” Amherst said, looking at Prince Edward.
“But I do, General,” the prince said. “I met him at Johnson Hall. He is highly respected among the Iroquois. Skenadoa is a senior chief, sir.”
“Why is he here?”
“Perhaps you should ask me directly.”
Skenadoa walked into Amherst’s tent. He offered a nod to Amherst, and a slight bow to the prince. And then, to the surprise of both the Englishmen, he reached his arm out to Amherst’s camp table and a small man—perhaps two feet in height—climbed down to stand on it.
Amherst got quickly to his feet. The little man assumed a fighting position, his tomahawk in his hand. Prince Edward extended his hand and touched Amherst’s arm.
“General Jeffery Amherst,” Skenadoa said. “Prince Edward. This is An-De-Le.”
“Who—” Amherst began. “Or, rather, what—”
“He is a Jo-Ge-Oh. Some call them Makiawesug. The Little People. He was watching the camp.”
“What brings you to our encampment, Brother Skenadoa?” Prince Edward asked.
“I bring word from Degonwadonti, Molly Brant, from Johnson Hall,” Skenadoa said. “I will give my report in due course. But in the meanwhile, you should hear what An-De-Le has to say, though it must be through my voice—he does not speak the white man’s tongues.”
“Do I not?”
All three men turned suddenly to face the little man stand
ing on the camp table. Skenadoa looked surprised, and then covered it with an annoyed expression.
“A spy,” Amherst said.
“An observer,” An-De-Le countered. “I was watching you. All of you.”
“Apparently unnoticed,” Amherst said.
“He is very small,” Skenadoa said. “I would not have noticed him at all if he was not so bad at spying.”
“Observing.”
“Observing,” Skenadoa said. “But he frightens easily. I caught him observing your camp and decided to bring him to meet you.” He looked down at the little man. “Now put your tomahawk away, Little Brother, and tell the general why you were . . . observing the camp.”
An-De-Le carefully sheathed his hatchet in his belt, and sat down on the table, stretching his legs out as if he had not a care in the world.
“The Seneca shaman did the Dark Dance and summoned us,” he said. “But he smelled bad.”
“Guyasuta has a shaman ally,” Skenadoa said. “His name is Sganyodaiyo. He is the one who summoned the Stone Coats and the Floating Heads. At his direction, some of his shamans became Oniate. There may be other horrors that he has brought forth, out of hatred of whites.”
“Maneto,” An-De-Le added. “And other things.”
“What is—”
“A creature of lakes and rivers,” Skenadoa said.
“So all of these things that oppose us,” Amherst said, “they are all due to this shaman, this Sganyodaiyo? Not the comet?”
“The broom-star is the reason the shaman can do all these things, foolish white man,” the Jo-Ge-Oh said. “He could not do them before.”
Amherst seemed ready to round on the little man at the phrase foolish white man, but again Edward touched his arm. “I’m not sure we knew that, General Amherst.”