Between Two Shores

by Jocelyn Green

  “Don’t say it,” she whispered. “You don’t need to tell me.” Some warriors, when they came to her post, traded with stories on their tongues. Some were mere exaggerations. She knew now that the ones about the ambush outside Fort Saint-Frédéric were not.

  Ten men scalped, mutilated, killed, perhaps in that order. Ten heads cut off and set upon poles to greet the English attackers when they came.

  Understanding tugged Catherine in both directions. No defense sprang to her tongue on behalf of the Mohawk warriors, nor did she blame them for participating in the war in the only way they knew how. And yet she could well imagine the horrors that Samuel had lived through, and those his fellow soldiers had not. She had seen the heads on poles, the clutches of scalps. She had sold them herself.

  A fine sheen of sweat glistened on Samuel’s face. “When Amherst attacked, the French fled. As I said, I was gone by then, but news was easy to learn once we got to Montreal. The French just gave it up, burning what they could on their departure. Their native allies were furious.”

  “Of course they were,” she said quietly. “Their hunting grounds are at stake. The Mohawk fight this war for the French, but not according to French rules.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “The Mohawk are fighting because they said they were the friends of the French, and friends fight with and for each other. But the People measure bravery by plunder, captives, and kills.”

  Samuel allowed a dark laugh to escape. “Then our attackers must have been happy to get at us before the French abandoned the fort.”

  Catherine drew her knees to her chest and crossed her hands over her moccasins. The porcupine quills and beads were cool and hard under her palms, which had grown damp with sweat. “Yes,” she admitted. “I do not defend their practices, Samuel. I’m only explaining how they see it. It isn’t the European way.”

  “It isn’t a European war, and both France and England would do well to remember it.” His tone was sharp and layered with regrets.

  “What happened that day outside Fort Saint-Frédéric—”

  “The massacre.”

  Catherine didn’t deny it. Sparrows still whistled on the branches above them, near enough for the spots of yellow above their eyes and black stripes on their small heads to be visible. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I still see the faces of my men on those poles. Every night. Sometimes I even see them in the day.” His voice pulled taut. “Now the British and Americans are building a new fort on that land, much better than the flimsy blockhouse that burned down. Crown Point, they call it.”

  Catherine lifted a flat hemlock needle from the ground and pressed it between her fingers until her skin became scented with its oil. “How do you know this?”

  “I overheard Captain Moreau telling Fontaine. The British engineer captured by the French certainly had a lot to say. Crown Point will be Amherst’s new headquarters. But I’m more interested in Monsieur Montcalm’s in Quebec.” Rising, he brushed dirt and pinecone scales from his trousers.

  Catherine stood as well and noticed the color had drained from Samuel’s face. Her gut twisted. She’d forgotten how intensely she could feel on his behalf. But this was how it had always been between the two of them. When Samuel was recovering from his broken leg, her heart had buckled in sympathy. When Gabriel belittled Catherine, it was Samuel who couldn’t bear to eat.

  He peered at the river once more. “Wake me if you see anything.” Then he turned, and chips of limestone crunched beneath his retreating feet. He pushed a branch out of his way as he brushed past it, and Catherine watched it sway until it slowed to a halt.

  An ache throbbed beneath her skull. She turned her attention back to the river, scanning for any vessels, but the pressure in her chest would not relent. Perhaps the tie between them had not been completely severed after all.

  Chapter Twenty

  By late morning, Catherine was restless. From her perch on the outcropping, she scanned the river in both directions before walking down to where the water lapped the land. Reveling in the freedom of movement her deerskin dress and leggings afforded, she squatted by the river and filled her canteen.

  The river was quiet today. A kingfisher dove in to snatch his prey with his long black beak, then soared away again as quickly. Rising, Catherine watched its flight.

  Far in the distance, a small white square rose above the surface of the river. Soon it would become two white squares, perhaps three, and they would no longer be small. They were ship sails.

  Hastening back up to her screened overlook, she knelt and kept watch until her suspicions were confirmed. Not just one French schooner, but a convoy of them were sailing upstream toward Montreal, no doubt to collect that critical last shipment of grain. At the tail end of the convoy glided a two-masted snow brig.

  Catherine willed her pulse to slow. Her bateau was safely sunk, and she and Samuel and Thankful were hidden from view.

  “Catherine?”

  She whipped around, jerking a finger to her lips. Thankful halted in a blade of sunlight that flashed on her golden hair. Catherine motioned for her to get down. Bending stiffly at the waist, Thankful hurried to kneel beside her. She had washed and smelled faintly of the lavender sachet that had scented her cotton gown. Without a word, she peered through the viburnum branches at the approaching schooners. In silence they sat together until the snow had passed well beyond them.

  “The convoy works in our favor,” Catherine said. “No one saw us or the bateau.”

  Thankful peeked again at the river. “So when all those ships and their crew reach Montreal, the captain will ask them if they saw anyone like Samuel—or us—on the river. And they’ll say no.”

  “Moreau will have no reason to come this way looking for us, especially not when he’ll be occupied loading the last several tons of grain.”

  Thankful tucked her hands into the folds of her skirt. “How long do you think it will be before they come back?” A breeze sighed through the trees, lifting wisps of hair off her neck.

  Montreal was little more than twenty miles from here. Even going south against the current, it would only take schooners about two hours to reach it. They’d need time to load the cargo, but once they headed back downstream, they’d travel at speeds three to four times faster than a bateau, depending on the wind. “A couple of days?” Catherine’s voice trailed away. “If there’s strong wind against them, longer. In three days’ time, we should be near Quebec, going downstream as we are.” It would be a race.

  “You haven’t slept yet, have you? We won’t leave again until you rest. I’ll keep watch.”

  As much as Catherine wanted to argue, she knew Thankful was right. Her body cried out for sleep. But a closer look at Thankful made her linger. The young woman was still wearing her stays beneath her fitted bodice.

  “Once we start the journey again, you’ll be much more comfortable rowing if you wear a deerskin skirt and stroud tunic.”

  “No, I wouldn’t.” Her voice took on an edge. “Trust me, Catherine, I really wouldn’t. It might be fine for you to wear such things, but not me.” She dropped her gaze. Her entire face seemed pinched.

  “You didn’t sleep well, or at least not enough,” Catherine said.

  Ducks swam on the water below, some of them dabbling their beaks in the mud. Thankful stared at them as one unseeing. “I journeyed on a river before, once. The Hudson, I think. And then Lake George, and then Lake Champlain. I didn’t sleep well then, either.”

  Realization swept over Catherine. The last time was after Thankful and her parents had been captured from their New Hampshire home. While Catherine and Bright Star had traded up and down rivers and lakes, Thankful had grown roots on the south shore of the St. Lawrence River, and there she had stayed for nine years. Catherine chided herself for not anticipating all that this trip would mean to her.

  “So you see, I don’t blame you for what happened to my family, but I can’t wear Mohawk clothing. Maybe it’s similar
to why you won’t cut your hair. You honor your mother with its length. I honor my parents by keeping my name, my faith, and clothing that looks more like what my mother wore and not like the people who killed her, though I know they were Abenaki.” She tucked her knees up under her skirts until they were below her chin. Hugging her ankles, she rocked back and forth while a single tear traced a path to the tip of her nose.

  The sight of it peeled the years away until Catherine saw not a young woman but the child within. Terrified, confused, lost in a world whose languages and customs she did not know. That girl had wet the bed every night for two years even after she knew she was safe.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,” Thankful whispered. “I’m thankful for you, and for everything you’ve done for me. It’s just that last night . . .”

  “I should have prepared you better for the rapids.” Catherine should have steered farther away from them altogether. Guilt pricked her, but it could have turned out so much worse.

  “It wasn’t just that.”

  Black-capped chickadees whistled in the pause that followed. “Please tell me,” Catherine urged. “If you would like to.”

  Thankful’s rocking slowed. “I don’t think I ever mentioned it before, but when I was taken and put in a canoe, my parents had already been killed. I don’t know if I saw that happen, because I don’t see it in my mind, but I—I think I hear their screams. ‘My baby,’ my mother cried over and over.”

  “She meant you.”

  “Perhaps.” Turning her head, Thankful seemed to study a spider web strung in the crook of a branch. A few dried petals stuck to the silk strands, residue of a spring long past. “I think it more likely she meant the babe in her womb. I don’t remember any last words between us, Catherine. Part of me wishes I did, and part of me is glad I don’t. I do miss them, though. And I miss the little sister or brother I might have had.”

  Catherine put her arm around Thankful’s shoulders. “Of course,” she murmured. “Of course you do.” Moments floated by like leaves on the river, languid and unhurried. “Being in the bateau brings it all back to you, then?” she dared to ask.

  A great sigh lifted Thankful’s chest. “When I was taken captive and put in the canoe all those years ago, my parents’ scalps—among others—lay at my feet. I know they were theirs because I could see the daisies I had wreathed and put in my mother’s hair that day.”

  Catherine had seen those wilted flowers. She had touched the hair that resembled Thankful’s in its many shades of gold and bronze. Now was not the time to tell her that those scalps had paid her ransom. That time may never come at all.

  Birch leaves trembled overhead, and the papery bark peeling from the trunk whispered secrets in the wind. Catherine offered her canteen to Thankful.

  When she finished drinking from it, Thankful wiped her lips and stared at the moisture on her fingers. “There was water in the bottom of the canoe, wetting my feet. I’m sure it was water now that I look back on it. But when I was a child, I thought—it was irrational, but I thought it was their blood.”

  Catherine ached in sympathy for the traumatized Thankful. “You were just a child. There was nothing rational about that day or the ones surrounding it. Thankful, I’m so sorry this happened to you. If I could take the pain away, I would.”

  “I would let you.” A wan smile slanted on Thankful’s pale face. “If my faith were stronger, I would say that I consider the trial a joy. I would say that testing produces perseverance. But if I am honest, I just want this pain to go away. I don’t feel it all the time, mind you. But when I do, I’m not thankful for it. It’s a festering boil in need of lancing. It’s not sorrow. Sorrow to me is a temporary hollowing. But this boil beneath the surface spreads a fever to every part of me. It’s anger. It’s an unforgiveness that I need to deal with, but I don’t know how. Or don’t want to.” She squinted at Catherine, looking for her reaction. “Disappointed? After all my talk of you forgiving Samuel.”

  “Oh, Thankful. The hurts I endured by him are nothing compared to losing your family in such a sudden way.”

  “And violent,” she inserted. “Sudden and violent. It was brutal.”

  It was. Catherine held back the thoughts that sprang to mind. She would gain nothing and Thankful would feel no comfort if Catherine pointed out that the French government encouraged those raids, or that the practice of adopting captives into Abenaki families was how they replaced loved ones lost to war or British raids or disease. The Abenaki might have died out completely if they had not incorporated so many captives into their clans. But even as the words formed in her mind, they sounded like justification, so she held her tongue.

  Sunshine warmed the hemlock boughs enough to release their lemony perfume. A finch trilled, and birch leaves fluttered to the ground. “This journey we are on now,” Catherine began. “Did you feel you had a choice in coming? Or do you feel I took you captive?”

  Thankful didn’t respond right away. It didn’t take long for the quiet to become unbearable, and Catherine rushed to fill it.

  “Listen. You know I do not confess the way the black robes want me to. But I will confess to you now. I thought I was making the right choice for you by bringing you along, but I should have allowed you the freedom to make that choice yourself. I didn’t think how hard the river journey might be for you, even without any rapids. I should have asked. Will you forgive me for treating you like a child who cannot think for herself?”

  Thankful grasped her hand. “You were thinking quickly, Catherine. I trust you had my best interests in mind. It was the right decision for me to come, but I appreciate you wanting to give me more say in the matter. I forgive you, so say no more about it.” She shifted her weight on the rock and looked out over the river. “And now I have my own confession to make. Your ability to forgive Samuel is a challenge to me to forgive the Abenaki. You remember what I said to you about reconciling with Samuel?”

  Catherine recalled every word. “You said being with him again was a chance to close old wounds and heal. For my sake, as much as his. Old wounds. Like yours.”

  “Yes. And now this experience, this journey confronts me with memories and feelings I’d rather not have. But perhaps this will be my chance to work on forgiving the Abenaki. It’s not the same as being face-to-face with them, but God help me, I will lance the boil that has plagued me for so long.”

  “No, you are not in their presence. But, Thankful . . .” Hesitating, Catherine plucked weedlike runners from Thankful’s skirt and cast them aside. “In another day or two, the river will take us within a few miles of Odanak, the Abenaki village. It’s off the St. Lawrence on the smaller river of Saint-François. We may see some Abenaki.”

  Thankful hugged her knees to her chest once more. “Then will you pray for me, that my heart cooperates with my will in this?”

  Clouds wreathed the sun, muting the midday rays. Catherine did not pray as much as she ought. But for this, for Thankful, she would.

  Samuel colored as soon as Catherine entered the cavern, then recovered with a chuckle. “I forget you’re accustomed to seeing men half naked.” He stood in the buckskin leggings she’d packed for him, right arm held tight across his bare middle. A forest-green hunting shirt hung limply from his left hand. “It’s easier to take off my shirt than to get it back on.”

  “May I help?”

  At his nod, Catherine went to him. She had seen countless men in naught but breechclouts, it was true, so she could not attribute the warmth spreading through her to modesty. She’d seen Samuel in this state before, as well. The night he proposed to her when he found her in the creek, for instance.

  Heart rate quickening, she gathered up the right sleeve of the shirt, then gently threaded it over his hand, arm, elbow, and shoulder until she could slide the neck opening over his head. Her fingers brushed his hair, unbound and still wet from washing. Memories pulled at her like strong currents as she retied the sling that held his arm. She was so tired of struggling against
them that she almost wanted to let them carry her away.

  Samuel took her hand from his neck, pressed his lips to it for the briefest of instants, then stepped away from her. “Thank you.”

  Shock raced through Catherine at his touch. “You’re welcome,” she told him, and was surprised at how deeply she meant it. But she did not know what that kiss had meant, or if she had only imagined it. Bewildered, she stood back as he pushed his left arm through the shirt and tugged the hem of it down between his chest and folded right arm.

  “I can’t tail my hair with one hand,” he said.

  “I’ll do it.”

  “No, I won’t have you brushing and dressing my hair like I’m a child. But will you cut it? Very short all over. I might have done it before this, like our American rangers. It’s far more practical.”

  She agreed and quickly found scissors in the moccasin patching kit. Once they were in her hand, Samuel knelt before her. “I’m not practiced at cutting hair,” she told him.

  “Bah. You cannot hurt my vanity.”

  His hair slipped like corn silk between her fingers as she combed through it. The motion, meant to be practical, felt far more intimate. Mastering her imagination, she snipped locks and tossed them to the ground for birds to find and weave into their nests.

  Several minutes later, she carefully trimmed over his ears and at his neck, then brushed the loose hair from his shoulders and back. “Finished.”

  Rising, Samuel thanked her and raked his fingers through his cropped hair. “Do I look like a shorn sheep?” His smile teased her. “More like a wheat field after harvest, eh?”

  Catherine couldn’t help smiling. “You look—” Masculine. Handsome. “Fine. You look fine.” She tucked the scissors back into the kit.