Evening brought them to Brant’s Crossing, another village surrounded by fields dusted with white. The guards at the stockade gate greeted Rebecca Morningstar with respect, and she and her companions were ushered inside. Looking around, MacLea realised this was more of a small town than a village; there were at least fifty longhouses, probably more. The place was far larger than Chippawa, and seemed to have nearly as many people as Niagara. A small, square whitewashed church stood rather incongruously amid the longhouses, looking a little like it had been dropped from the sky.
Next to the church was another big longhouse, full of people and dogs and smoke and flickering firelight and the smells of cooking. Cramped and cold after a long day in the canoes, they were grateful for the warmth. ‘Sit here,’ said Rebecca, gesturing to one of the fires. ‘Food will be brought to you. I will return soon.’
Young women in deerskins, several with crucifixes around their necks, brought them food, wooden bowls of corn and beans and sizzling roasted meat that Miller thought was probably squirrel. As soon as the bowls were emptied, the women refilled them again. ‘This is decent of them,’ said McTeer, polishing off his second helping. ‘They may kill us, but at least we’ll die with full bellies.’
Carson snorted. ‘You certainly will,’ he said. ‘Keep eating like that, McTeer, and when they do come for you, you’ll be too fat to run away.’
McTeer eyed him. ‘You’re calling me fat? Pots and kettles, Carson. Pots and kettles.’
‘Pipe down,’ said MacLea. He could see Rebecca coming back through the smoky glow of the fires, and as she approached, he put his bowl down and stood up.
‘She will see you now,’ Rebecca said. ‘Come with me.’
At the far end of the longhouse another fire glowed. A solitary figure, a woman with grey hair pulled back in a single braid running down her back, sat cross-legged on a blanket before the hearth, smoking a long-stemmed clay pipe. Her buckskin robe was elaborately sewn with coloured beads, as were the moccasins on her feet. She too had a crucifix around her neck, and she wore a gold ring with a cabochon ruby on the forefinger of her left hand. She looked up as they approached.
‘Kanahstatsi,’ she said to Rebecca. ‘What do you bring me?’
‘Adonwentishon,’ Rebecca said. ‘This is John MacLea.’
‘I know who he is,’ said Catherine Brant. ‘Why did you bring him here?’
‘Because he needs our help,’ said Rebecca.
Catherine puffed on her pipe and paused, letting smoke trickle slowly from her nostrils. ‘Be seated,’ she said to MacLea.
A little stiffly, MacLea sat down on the ground, crossing his legs. Rebecca sat beside him. Catherine Brant picked up a small wooden bowl and passed it across. ‘Hazelnuts,’ she said, ‘roasted and then covered in sugar from the maple tree. Try one.’
The nuts were small and coated with sugar crystals. MacLea bit into one, tasting an explosion of sweet flavour. ‘They are delicious,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
The fire popped in its hearth. The rest of the longhouse was full of light and colour and movement, but their own end of the building was still, empty apart from the three of them. Catherine Brant puffed on her pipe again. ‘You wish me to help you,’ she said. ‘How?’
MacLea drew a deep breath. ‘I am told you knew George Wilson,’ he said. ‘Did you know he is dead?’
‘I have heard,’ she said. ‘And yes, I did know him. He came often to trade with my people. He always paid a fair price.’
‘Did you know he was working for the Americans?’ MacLea asked.
‘Yes,’ said Catherine Brant. ‘I knew.’
She stared at him, her dark eyes reflecting the firelight. MacLea thought of asking why she had not informed the British authorities, but knew it was futile. ‘How long had he been working for them?’ he asked instead.
‘A year at least,’ she said. ‘Perhaps longer. Last year he came in secret to see me and asked if I would join forces with him and help lead an uprising against the British.’
In the silence that followed, MacLea could feel his scalp tingling. ‘And what answer did you give?’ he asked quietly.
Catherine Brant blew out more smoke. ‘I will tell you,’ she said, ‘but first, I have some questions of my own. Why is Wilson so important that you would travel all this way to see me? Why does he interest you?’
She is testing me, MacLea thought. He looked down at his hands for a moment, trying to decide how much to say. He had a strong feeling that if he withheld the truth, she would know it.
‘I am searching for a spy ring in Upper Canada,’ he said. ‘These men are gathering information and passing it to the Americans, but they are also trying to undermine us more directly. In September, they attempted to start a mutiny in one of our fencible regiments. And now you say Wilson encouraged you to revolt as well.’
‘Wilson was part of your spy ring,’ she said. It was a statement, not a question.
MacLea nodded. ‘I am looking for the leader of this ring,’ he said. ‘Wilson’s master.’
Their eyes met. ‘You seek Polaris,’ said Catherine Brant.
‘Yes,’ said MacLea. ‘Will you help me?’
In the silence that followed, the woman laid down her pipe. She wrapped her beaded robe more closely around her, arranging its folds carefully, and then looked once more at MacLea.
‘Why should I?’ she asked directly.
‘Like it or not, our destinies are bound up with each other,’ MacLea said. ‘If the Americans conquer Canada and turn it into their nineteenth state, the Mohawks will suffer, even more than the Canadians. You fled from the Americans once. But this time there is nowhere for you to go.’
He remembered what Rebecca had told him. ‘Your survival as a people could be at stake,’ he said.
‘Our survival as a people,’ she repeated slowly. ‘And the British? Can they guarantee that we will survive? Or will they turn against us, steal our land, steal our homes, steal our children away to be raised as white, so they forget who they are and where they came from?’
‘I have heard that your own father was a white man, born in Ireland,’ MacLea said.
‘Where you were born does not matter, John MacLea, nor does it matter whose womb you crawled out of. What matters is the choices you make. Anagurunda was a man of our people. He spoke our language, he sat on our councils, and he would never betray us. White, you say. What resemblance did he bear to men like Roger Sheaffe or Prévost? None whatsoever. He was so different to them that he might have been a man from a different world.’
‘I did not mean to denigrate him,’ MacLea said quietly.
‘I did not say you did. But understand this, John MacLea. I do not trust the British, nor will I ever do so. Yes, I knew of George Wilson’s treason, and I did not report it. Why should I? There was no profit in doing so, for me or my people. You tell me that if the Americans come, they will enslave us or exterminate us. So they will. But maybe it is better to die at once than the slow death by assimilation that your people have planned for us.’
‘Perhaps so,’ said MacLea. ‘I cannot make that decision for you. All I can say to you, Adonwentishon, is that when I fight, I am defending your people as much as my own. Ask John Norton if you do not believe me.’
In the silence, the fire popped again. A woman came forward with a basket of logs, placed two of them on the fire, and withdrew once more. ‘In October,’ MacLea said, ‘I risked my life to lead an attack on the Americans at Queenston. I did so because John Norton and his warriors were fighting and dying while British soldiers stood idly by, waiting for General Sheaffe to give the order to advance. Had I not intervened, Norton and his men, your men, would have been killed.’
‘But you owed Teyoninhokarawen a debt,’ she said. ‘He had saved your life once before.’
‘It is true,’ said MacLea. ‘And I will quote your own words back to you, Adonwentishon. It does not matter where you were born, or whose womb you came from. We are fighting this war together.
We are brothers and sisters, no matter the colour of our skin.’
Rebecca Morningstar raised her head. ‘Adonwentishon,’ she said softly, ‘your son fought with Norton that day at Queenston. It was his life also.’
A long time passed before Catherine Brant spoke again. ‘I refused to join George Wilson’s rebellion,’ she said. ‘He promised me that in the event of an American victory, we would be rewarded, but I did not believe him. If I have little cause to trust the British, I also have no reason to believe an American promise.’
She reached for a leather tobacco pouch, and then picked up her pipe and began to fill it. ‘George Wilson allowed his heart to rule his head,’ she said. ‘He had heard too much talk and read too many books about liberty. He was an idealist. That made it easy for Polaris to recruit him, and others like him. But dreamers like them are not the real threat. Dreams die easily. I know.’
She set down the tobacco pouch and sat still, the stem of the pipe clasped in her hands. She had long fingers, MacLea suddenly noticed, long and graceful, with carefully trimmed nails.
‘The dangerous men are the cold ones,’ she said, ‘the schemers and planners who seek to extend American dominion across this entire continent and will not rest until they have done so. They believe in action, not dreams; and conquest, not liberty, is their intention. It is these men you must defeat, if you are to triumph over Polaris. And Polaris himself is the most dangerous of them all.’
‘Do you know who Polaris is?’ MacLea asked quietly.
‘I do not know his name, but George Wilson told me a few things about him. He is a merchant, a prominent man and a member of the Upper Canada Assembly.’
‘An Assemblyman? You are certain of this?’
‘I am certain,’ said Catherine Brant.
He wanted to ask how she could be so sure, and whether Wilson had really let slip these things, but he sensed he had pushed his luck as far as it would go. Uncrossing his legs, he rose to his feet and bowed. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You have been very generous with your hospitality, and I am grateful for the information. In the morning, with your permission, my men and I will depart.’
Preoccupied with lighting her pipe, she did not say anything at first, but then she looked up and he saw the reflected firelight flicker in her dark eyes. ‘Go with God, John MacLea,’ she said.
* * *
After MacLea had returned to his men, Catherine Brant turned to Rebecca Morningstar, still sitting on the blanket facing her. ‘You have served our people well, Kanahstatsi,’ she said. ‘Now I ask you to serve them once more.’
‘Name what you desire, Adonwentishon.’
‘Now that he has heard what I have to tell him, John MacLea will go to York to search for Polaris. I wish you to go there also, and observe what happens.’
‘And Shawátis? What do I tell him?’
‘What and how much you tell him, I leave to you.’ Catherine Brant drew deeply on her pipe and blew out smoke. ‘From what you have told me, I believe Wilson’s plot was betrayed by Polaris himself. I cannot yet deduce what Polaris’s plans are, or what the consequences might be for our people. Be my eyes and ears in York, Kanahstatsi. Tell me everything that goes on. If we receive warning of events before they happen, then we can plan for how to deal with them when they arrive.’
‘And how will we deal with them?’ asked Rebecca Morningstar. ‘Does that include changing sides in the war?’
‘I hope it will not come to that,’ said Catherine Brant. ‘When you arrive in York, find Shawátis and ask him to work with us again.’
‘It shall be done,’ said Rebecca Morningstar. ‘You may rely on me.’
‘I know.’ Catherine Brant smiled for the first time. ‘You are a good servant, Kanahstatsi, selfless and devoted to your people. I wish there were more like you.’
Position Play
Chapter Seven
MacLea and his men left Brant’s Crossing in the morning, and spent the day marching down the military road known as Dundas Street, passing through empty forests silent under a sky dark with clouds. At nightfall they reached Ancaster, a village perched at the top of the steep escarpment that ran the length of the Niagara peninsula.
Far from the front line of the war, Ancaster teemed with exuberant life. Hunters from the Grand River peoples and other tribes further west walked in buckskins and moccasins through the half-frozen mud of its streets, mingling with Canadian merchants and traders and heavy wagons laden with timber. Streams pouring down the face of the escarpment provided power for a dozen mills, and the thump and grind of waterwheels and the rasp of saws filled the air.
The militiamen settled in at the Union Hotel, where MacLea sent a message to Richard Hatt asking to see him. The latter responded at once: he would come to the hotel at ten o’clock the following morning.
Hatt was nothing if not punctual. He arrived on the stroke of ten to find Murray and MacLea waiting for him in the empty saloon bar. Tall windows looked out over the escarpment towards the lowlands of the east. Almost at the foot of the escarpment was the lagoon known as Coote’s Paradise. In the distance, the waters of Lake Ontario shimmered in the light. All the forests and fields were dusted with snow, still only a couple of inches at the moment, but the steely grey skies promised more to come.
Hatt no longer wore his white armband; when the rival armies went into winter quarters, his company, like nearly all the rest of the militia, had been sent home. Come spring, and the new season of campaigning, they would be called to arms again. Hatt now looked like what he was: a prosperous merchant, mill owner and man of substance in Ancaster and the district around it.
‘I bought timber from Wilson on several occasions,’ he said. ‘There’s a great deal of building going on, here and in Dundas, and the local mills can’t always keep up with demand. Wilson provided good-quality timber for rafters and beams. I found him reliable.’
‘Who else did he do business with?’ asked Alec Murray.
Hatt sipped his coffee. ‘Let me see… James Boydell, of course. Boydell sometimes used him as an agent to trade with the Indians on the Grand River. Samuel Street and his brother Caleb; the Streets have land all over the peninsula, and Sam owns a mill at Chippawa. John Fanning is another; he has a house at Chippawa too. He used to run the stagecoach service from Niagara to Fort Erie, back before the war. Like Wilson, Fanning and the Streets all came up from America.’
MacLea and Murray glanced at each other. ‘What do you know about Wilson’s political leanings?’ MacLea asked.
Hatt scratched his chin. ‘He didn’t like a lot of things that are happening in Upper Canada. He was bitter and resentful and didn’t really care who knew it.’
‘What things?’
‘The way a cabal of merchants, lawyers and officials in York are gathering the reins of power into their own hands, for a start. You know who I mean: Chief Justice Scott, Beikie the sheriff, Prideaux Selby the receiver general, merchants like Elijah Dunne and Boydell, all that lot. They dominate the Legislative Assembly and control the Executive Council. Wilson hated them. They were making laws and levying taxes arbitrarily, without proper representation. The war and the imposition of martial law have made matters worse.’
MacLea studied him. ‘Did you agree with Wilson?’
‘You mean did I think we should start a rebellion and invite the Americans in? No,’ said Hatt. ‘That won’t solve anything. But I think he had a point. Men like Wilson and myself are being frozen out. We no longer have a say in the government of this country, and the votes we cast are meaningless. The Legislative Assembly is the same bloody bunch of oligarchs it always was. Nothing ever changes.’
‘Wilson didn’t like James Boydell because he was one of the cabal,’ MacLea said. ‘And yet he still traded with him.’
Hatt shrugged. ‘Of course he did. Business is business.’
* * *
After Hatt had gone, MacLea and Murray sat in silence for a few minutes, thinking. Finally Murray stirred. ‘What do you
think?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know,’ MacLea said. ‘Josephine was convinced the rebellion plot was a hoax. But Catherine Brant said Wilson approached her about joining an uprising.’
‘Was she telling the truth?’
‘Yes, I think so. She didn’t have to tell us anything, but she chose to do so. I think she genuinely hopes we will find Polaris. But if we don’t, and the Americans invade… then I think she will do whatever she must to protect her people.’
Murray nodded soberly. ‘Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war,’ he said. ‘And who can blame her? God knows our authorities have given her little enough reason to trust us. The Indian Department is a sink of corruption, and Hatt is right about the Assembly. The whole damned lot of them have their snouts in the trough.’
‘Careful,’ said MacLea. ‘Expressing opinions like that these days could get a man shot.’
‘Pah,’ said Murray. ‘I’m just a lowly sergeant of militia. No one gives a damn what I think.’ He glanced outside at the heavy grey clouds. ‘I reckon more snow is on the way. If we’re going to York, we need to get there soon, before the roads clog up. I’ll call the boys.’
* * *
Snow was indeed falling when they reached York; not fine frozen powder this time, but thick, heavy flakes like goose down that spun and swirled and danced in the freezing wind. The hats and greatcoats of the sentries outside the fort opposite Gibraltar Point were thickly caked with white.
The senior officer at the fort, Major Clerk of the Royal Newfoundland Regiment, received MacLea and Murray in his office. A cast-iron stove sat in the middle of the room, glowing with heat. Outside, more snow was piling up on the roofs of the barracks and the magazine. ‘Winter is here for sure,’ said the major. ‘You fellows have arrived just in time. Sit down, sit down.’ He waved towards a bottle on his desk. ‘Help yourselves to a slug.’
The Royal Newfoundlands were a fencible regiment, recruited in the island colony to the east and posted to Upper Canada to bolster the desperately thin ranks of British regulars. They wore uniforms and were equipped like proper soldiers, but were famous for their casual attitude to things such as drill and discipline. Clerk sat with his booted feet up on his desk and a glass of rum in his hand, even though it was not yet midday. MacLea declined the offer of a drink.
The Hunt for the North Star Page 10