Bile shoved up Catherine’s throat, and she muscled it back down to her churning stomach. She summoned her courage, summoned the blood of her mother’s people to flow stronger in her veins. If she didn’t conduct this well, she could bring dishonor down upon her siblings or her father, or both.
She cleared her mind. She knew the rules of the transaction and that the governor was as good as his word. The price for English scalps was a fraction of the price to be had for a live captive. Still, taken together, it was a hefty sum. Her father would be pleased at this.
Perhaps he would even be pleased with her.
Catherine wiped her sweating palms on her apron and reluctantly agreed to the trade. She lifted the three muskets he desired from the pegs on the wall and laid them on the counter, then counted out the pounds of powder and balls to go with them. Satisfied, he thrust the ring of scalps at her, and she took them with shaking hands. As the warrior left with his weapons, she lowered the scalps into a leather bag and cinched the mouth of it closed.
Guilt filled her belly. She had not killed those people, but she would take payment for their scalps, as though their lives were as fair a trade item as furs and beads and kettles. Her hands were sticky with their blood. Was this worth her father’s approval?
An irrelevant question, for there was no undoing it now. She washed her hands at the basin in the corner and recorded the trade in the ledger. The simple act of documenting transactions was something her father never bothered to do, but it had proven key in understanding which items brought the most profit and how often they were in demand. It was one reason the post fared better since Catherine had taken more responsibility.
But she could not stay here a minute longer with those scalps. Though hidden from view, she could smell them. With no other customers in the post, she could almost hear the screams of those who gave them up.
Snatching a pair of leggings from the shelf, she pulled them on under her petticoats, stepped back into her moccasins, and fled the post, bag of scalps in hand. The bell was still clanging above the door as she locked it.
Propelled by her purpose, she plunged into the stable. The thick smell of hay and leather surrounded her. Needle-thin shafts of light slanted through gaps in the walls. “Hello, Lady. Want to go for a ride?” She rubbed the horse’s jawline before saddling her.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Samuel stood in the doorway, his hair dark with sweat from working outside all day.
“To the city, if you must know.” She would ride the mare east along the St. Lawrence River until she was past the Lachine Rapids, then rent a canoe to take her across to Montreal.
“Alone?” He frowned.
She knew his memory flashed to the time he’d taken a canoe alone, at her insistence. But this was vastly different. A short trip and back again, all in one day. She cinched and buckled the belt under the horse’s belly. “If I can paddle all the way to Albany, I can certainly make my way to Montreal.”
“But you’re with another porter for those trips. You shouldn’t just go off on your own.”
“My father leaves me alone quite often, if you haven’t noticed.” Dust scratched at the back of her throat.
“That’s not right, either.” He hooked his thumb into the pocket of his breeches. “He’s supposed to watch out for you.”
The comment lit a fire inside her, for it gave voice to a whisper she had felt in her spirit but so far refused to credit. Besides, between Samuel and little Joseph, who still came to leave meat and lurk about, there were enough people watching her.
She tucked the leather pouch into the saddlebag, hoping Samuel wouldn’t inquire. Those were the scalps of his countrymen. And woman, she reminded herself, recalling that long blond hair. She looked up to see him still waiting for her reply.
“I’m not a child anymore, Samuel.” She fit the bridle over Lady’s head. “I’m old enough to be on my own for more than just a day’s journey. In fact, I’m old enough to be married.”
He squinted at her. “You are not.” He crossed his arms, still blocking her exit.
“Yes I am. If I had stayed at Kahnawake, I’d be married by now and might even have a baby of my own. Bright Star married at fourteen and has two children now.” She led Lady out of the stall, pushing past Samuel and into the sun. Putting one foot in the stirrup, she pulled herself up onto the horse. Madame Bonneville would have been appalled to see her straddling it this way, but her leggings afforded all the modesty she required. “So I’m old enough to cross the river alone. I’ve taken Papa to Montreal a million times.”
“Exactly.” Samuel grabbed Lady’s bridle, stroking her mane with his other hand. “He never let you go alone before. I don’t think he’d like it if you went without his permission.”
Lady twitched her tail to ward off flies. Glancing between the house and the trading post to confirm Gabriel was still gone, Catherine spread her skirt over the saddlebag that contained the object of her mission. “I’m going, Sam.”
“Come on, Catie. What’s so all-important over there that you have to go right now?” His brown eyes seemed older than his years. They held questions she did not want to answer.
She gripped the reins. “Business with the governor. You can’t stop me.”
“I don’t aim to. I’m coming with you.” Before she knew what he was about, he’d pulled himself up and was sitting on the horse right behind her.
“Samuel Crane!” She twisted to scold him. “Now who do you think will be punished?”
“If you’re old enough to be a wife, you’re old enough to need a chaperone.” His grin disarmed her. “At your service.”
Fighting back a smile, Catherine faced forward again and urged Lady into a walk when what she really wanted was a gallop.
Miles passed beneath a cloud-tufted sky of lapis blue. The foaming Lachine Rapids raced at their left, fringed with cattails and swamp milkweed and flurries of monarchs. Samuel smelled of wood and sweat, and the heat from his body radiated into hers. Though accustomed to being alone, Catherine didn’t mind his presence at her back.
The sun had just passed its zenith when they left Lady at a livery stable and rented a canoe to cross the river. Together they paddled, gliding over the water, and something like pleasure eddied around her. It had been a long recovery from Sam’s broken leg last November. Seeing him active again, whatever the reason, felt like victory.
Montreal no longer intimidated Catherine, though it seemed built for the task. The walled city was nothing like the piece of earth she called home on the south side of the St. Lawrence. It was a rectangle about a mile long, a quarter mile wide at its west end, and half as wide at its east. As they approached the landing beach, Mount Royal rose dramatically behind it.
Catherine and Samuel tied up the canoe at the riverfront and entered the guarded gates built into a masonry wall eighteen feet high and pierced with narrow openings every six feet for defending musketry. Here in the lower town, close to the river, buildings were connected and hugged the street line. Sailors and brightly rouged women with loose hair teased each other loudly, mouths parted in garish grins. A few beggars sat in doorways and watched.
Catherine glanced up the hill toward two-story, black-gabled houses of rough-split fieldstone and church steeples topped with crucifixes. The metal symbols of the dying Christ stabbed the sky, catching the sun like bayonets. Montreal was a firmly Catholic city, and no fewer than six religious orders dwelled within its boundaries. Still a Protestant, Samuel glanced at several crucifixes, but he made no remark.
Two massive stone towers cast their shadows over the city while she and Samuel threaded their way between soldiers in gleaming white uniforms, nuns in grey, priests in black, and ladies in a rainbow of silks. Noting their white-powdered coifs, Catherine tucked a loose strand of dark hair into the braid encircling her head. Servants scurried and Indians strolled, taller than the Frenchmen by a head, some naked save for their breechclouts, others in trade shirts and leggings. Everyone sh
ared the road with horses and carriages. Shoppers who could not afford those brought dogs pulling small carts.
Turning east, Catherine led Sam away from the west-end marketplace toward the military and administrative quarter of town. Many homes they passed hid their backyard livestock from view, but cows, chickens, and hogs all added their scents and sounds to the atmosphere.
“Let me carry that.” Samuel reached for the bag of scalps as the street broadened and angled upward.
“No, don’t.” Catherine jerked it out of his reach, flooded with fresh horror. It was a burden far beyond its actual weight, and she would not surrender it to another.
Samuel frowned but didn’t argue, though she could see in the set of his jaw that curiosity pressed him tight. They were surrounded by hoofbeats, street vendors, church bells, European and native languages, but all Catherine heard was the silence buzzing like black flies between them.
Their strides and breath grew shorter as they climbed the slope, her nose pinching at the smell of human waste in the gutters lining the unpaved street. A redoubt on the small hill presided over a storehouse and the boatyard below. When she saw the governor’s house—two stories of cut stone spread wide, like a French palace—Catherine’s stomach clenched.
Gravel crunched beneath their feet as they approached the imposing front doors. The butler admitted them into an entrance taken up by a grand circular staircase. It was here that Catherine left Samuel while she conducted the trade with a clerk, who decreed those four British lives worth one hundred and thirty-two French livres. She was finished with business before Samuel had been waiting a quarter of an hour.
“Let’s go,” she told him, and hurried past one of the governor’s African slaves. The payment sagged in the bottom of the bag. The coins were heavy and clinked together unless she cradled it close to her chest.
“What did you trade to get all that?” Samuel patted the bag once they were back out on the street.
The air inside Catherine’s throat expanded and grew sharp. She didn’t know what to say. If she told him the truth, what would he think of her? What would he do? She couldn’t bear the thought of losing his esteem. But she’d never kept secrets from him before. She bit her lip before opening her mouth to speak.
“Don’t lie to me,” Sam told her. “I’d rather not know at all than wonder whether I could trust you again.”
Catherine sent a frustrated breath through her nose, and they lapsed into a silence that went deeper with every step they took downhill.
They walked through shadows grown long, stretching out from the limestone buildings lining the street. The bag grew heavier in Catherine’s arms as they passed a dress shop and then the milliner Yvette Trudeau’s place. In the display window, Madame Trudeau arranged new hats and bonnets in the latest styles. If Madame caught sight of Catherine, she would pull her inside for a visit, and today Catherine could not bear Madame’s kind attentions. Not after selling scalps off heads that would never wear hats again.
Samuel’s stomach rumbled, and Catherine gladly steered them into a yeasty-smelling bakery and paid for a croissant with the few sous she’d brought in her pocket.
“Is this a peace offering? For the secrets you’re hiding?” Sam took the croissant before she could answer and began eating as they left the building.
“Is it working?” she asked. Horse-drawn carriages trundled by, and pedestrians thickened on the street. Normally she enjoyed trips into the city. Not today. She was nearly as eager to be home now as she had been as a student trapped at Madame Bonneville’s.
Samuel’s shoulders lifted and fell, but he ate until only a few golden-brown flakes remained on his fingertips, and those he licked clean, too.
The slope gentled as they neared the city gate through which they had entered. But a crowd slowed their steps to a shuffle.
“What’s going on?” Samuel asked a man near him.
“Captives for sale.” The man stretched his neck above his cravat, craning for a better view. “Most of them already ransomed, though. The Africans are still there, but they’re asking a thousand livres for each of them, on account of the permanent labor they’ll fetch. Some English, too.”
Darkness overtook Sam’s face in an instant. Four years ago he was the captive, her father the man who purchased him. What memories filled his mind now, she could only imagine. She gently tugged his hand, thinking it would be easier to leave quickly.
“Wait.” Sam moved to better see the captives, and she followed.
She didn’t know what she was supposed to feel. Her mother’s people had done this, had taken these British settlers from their homes. Her father’s people had sanctioned it and grew rich off English slaves and scalps.
Her hands grew sweaty on the bag of silver. She had grown rich from this, too.
The captives were filthy. Two African men of sturdy build stood with heads bowed, looking only at their bare feet. An auburn-haired woman of middling years wore a dress but obviously no corset or petticoats. She’d no doubt been captured in the dead of night, then made to dress in a blind rush. The words issuing from her cracked lips sounded German. To the side of the woman was a girl who could not have seen more than seven summers. Her eyelids were pink and swollen, her face mottled with dirt and grime. But it was her hair that made Catherine’s mouth go dry. It was wavy, long. And though it was in need of a wash, she could see it was three shades of blond.
“I want my mama!” the child wailed, and Catherine nearly dropped the money she’d been paid for that mama’s scalp. Her chest felt so tight and hard, she could barely draw air.
Samuel uttered an unholy oath against the French and against the captors, then called out to the girl in English that everything would be all right. That she need not fear. His voice trembled as he said it.
“Samuel,” Catherine gasped, clutching his arm. “Sam!” Her skin felt cold, and she knew she was holding him too tight. She stepped back from the crowd, and he came with her, bending his ear to her lips. In a breathless rush, she told him what she had done.
“You took money for the scalps?” The way he asked it, the way he looked at her, made it seem like she had personally betrayed him, as well as all that was human and decent.
They were already dead, she wanted to say, but didn’t. It was the devil’s trade, and she had participated in it. The blood had touched her hands. Papa would have wanted her to—he would rejoice at the money it brought.
“I’ll never do it again, no matter what Papa says. But what will become of her? The little girl who lost her parents on the way?” No sooner had she voiced the question than a merchant stepped forward and asked the captor about the girl. Catherine recognized him. “Oh no,” she murmured. “Not him.”
Sam stared at the man. “Why? What do you know?”
“I’ve heard stories, that’s all. He ransoms little girls, just pretty ones. But no one ever sees them again. Some say . . .” But she could not bring herself to repeat it. The base idea took hold in her imagination, and bile soured her gut.
She might be wrong. Perhaps the merchant ransomed little girls and sent them to the convent to be raised in God’s service. She knew that to be the fate of many. Such girls were fairly treated, she supposed, aside from being torn from their families.
She listened to the merchant discuss the price with the captor and overheard that the girl’s name was Thankful. The merchant spoke of giving her a new name, something French and Catholic. But Thankful was a good name, one that spoke of a contented life. It was almost Mohawk in nature, the way it succinctly described the person who bore it. Her parents must have loved her very much.
Catherine’s heart beat like a caged bird. The little girl wanted her mama. She was all alone, separated from the place of her birth, struggling to recall who she was, and Catherine knew what that was like.
“I’m going to ransom her.” The girl’s price was one hundred thirty livres. Catherine held that sum in her hands. “I’m going to ransom that little girl.”
Samuel’s glance swiveled between Catherine and the child. Then he nodded as if this were the only right thing to do. “What about your father?”
She curled her toes inside her moccasins. She already disappointed him in ways she could not help. Too much “savage” blood in her veins. If Catherine had to suffer his displeasure, she might as well earn it by doing something she believed in. “I don’t care if he doesn’t like it. I’m going to do it anyway. I’ll keep her safe. I’ll help her get back to her family somehow. Even if I have to row her to Albany myself.”
“Your father will hate it.”
“He hates a lot of things. I’ll treat her right, Sam. She won’t belong to him.”
His hands came around her shoulders, and she felt the tension leave her body at his touch. “You do this, Catie, and it will be the truest thing you’ve ever done.”
She didn’t know exactly what he meant by that, but she was as drawn in by his words and the conviction behind them as she was by the little girl. She’d been trying so hard to please Papa that sometimes she felt false. More than anything, she wanted to do something true. She wanted that true thing to be Thankful.
Dusk turned the sky lavender and the river a ribbon to match it. Fireflies blinked all around them as Samuel led Lady. Catherine, in the saddle, held a sleeping Thankful, who smelled of grass and earth and wind.
Was it only that morning that Flying Arrow had told Catherine she was old enough to be married and have a child? She knew now that he’d been right. For though she was not Thankful’s mother and would never pretend to be, purpose swelled inside her at the thought of caring for this little soul until she could be reunited with her relatives, and purpose felt akin to joy. Uncertainty drifted far from her, like pickerelweed floating downstream.
Samuel was changing, too. Or perhaps this tenderness had always been inside him but never allowed to surface until now.
Between Two Shores Page 9