The Hunt for the North Star

by The Hunt for the North Star (retail) (epub)

  Gripping his shillelagh in both hands, Derenzy swung it like a golf club and hammered the ball at chest height into the press of men opposing. One fell back shouting and clutching his arm, and the others scattered while Derenzy charged into the press again, this time with MacLea close behind him. More men followed, a phalanx driving a wedge into Givins’s ranks and forcing a hole in their line.

  Dimly MacLea could hear Givins shouting to his team to close up, while behind him Boydell roared his own men on. Bodies thudded into bodies, shillelaghs rapped against each other or thudded on bone. Men were knocked on their backs on the ice, floundering in their heavy coats and struggling to get up while skate blades knifed perilously close to their gloved fingers. Shouts and screams and oaths filled the air, mingling with the sounds of violence and drowning out the noise of the band and the cheers of the watching crowd.

  In the midst of the melee MacLea found himself face to face with Sekahos, the Mississauga leader. ‘Bonjour, monsieur!’ said Sekahos cheerfully. ‘It is good to see you again,’ and he raised his shillelagh and aimed a vicious blow at MacLea’s head. MacLea parried it and barged into the Mississauga, knocking him down. Wild cheering came from up ahead; Derenzy had driven the ball through the press and hammered it between the two ice blocks that served as goalposts.

  ‘Merde!’ said Sekahos. ‘That is one goal to you.’

  ‘Better luck next time,’ said MacLea. He reached down and helped the Mississauga back to his feet.

  Bruised and battered, some with blood leaking from cut cheeks or swollen lips, the players reset. Up on the bank, the pistol fired again, and once more the two teams raced across the ice to do battle. This time Boydell held back, letting Givins come forward. Just as the major struck the ball, Boydell swung his shillelagh straight at the other man’s body. Givins grunted as the blow thudded into his ribs, then raised his fist and punched Boydell hard in the face. Picking out a path through the mayhem exploding around him, MacLea accelerated fast on his skates and cannoned hard into Givins, sending him spinning backwards.

  ‘Thanks!’ shouted Boydell, ignoring the blood dripping from his nose. ‘Where’s the ball— Oh Christ! There the bastards go! Cut them off!’

  A dozen men had formed a tight scrum around the ball and were battering their way through the crowd, sending players from both teams spinning across the ice. MacLea and Derenzy charged into them from the side, but met a solid wall of opposition. Fists and shillelaghs thudded and something hit MacLea hard in the ribs, then again, and he doubled over in pain. A blow caught Derenzy in the midriff and he sprawled on the ice, winded; when he tried to climb to his feet, another man knocked him down again. Hard hands seized MacLea, ripping his shillelagh away and dragging him into the middle of the scrum. He tried to fight back, but a blow in the small of his back just over his kidneys left him retching in agony. More blows, fists, boots, shillelaghs, and then someone hit him across the side of the head. The world went dark, save for the pinwheel lights sparkling before his eyes, and then those too faded.

  * * *

  Up on the bank, Murray scanned the mob of struggling men on the ice. ‘I can’t see John,’ he said.

  The band played ‘Garryowen’ while the crowd roared the players on. ‘He went charging into the scrum a moment ago,’ said Elizabeth Selby. ‘Head down and going like the clappers.’

  ‘That sounds like John,’ said Murray. A little group of men had broken away from the game and were moving out across the ice, dragging something with them. No, someone; one of their comrades had been knocked unconscious, and they were taking him out of the game to receive medical attention. William Derenzy was back on his feet, but two Mississaugas skated hard into him, sandwiching him and knocking him down again. His bride-to-be clucked her tongue unsympathetically. ‘I told him he’d get hurt if he played, but he wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘Men never do,’ said Josephine. She had just noticed Elijah Dunne standing further along the bank, staring at them. She could not tell if he was watching Lizzie Selby or herself.

  ‘I still wish I could see John,’ said Murray. ‘I can’t pick him out at all.’

  ‘There he is,’ said a voice behind them.

  It was Rebecca Morningstar. Despite the cold, she was breathing hard, as if she had been running; her breath billowed in clouds of steam around her face. She pointed towards the group of men still making their way across the ice. ‘They have taken John MacLea,’ she said. ‘I saw it happen. They have beaten him unconscious, and now they intend to kill him.’

  ‘Oh Christ,’ said Murray. Josephine stood frozen, her dark eyes staring in terror at the distant men. Murray looked around and saw Abel Thomas ten yards away. ‘Take over!’ he snapped, pointing at Josephine, and then plunged down the bank and ran out across the ice, boots slipping and sliding in desperate haste. Rebecca Morningstar was close behind him.

  They hurtled through the battling shinney players, Murray using his elbows and boots to force a path when needed, racing together after the group. They were too late. The men had already dispersed, gliding on their skates back into the game and vanishing among the other players as the melee raged to and fro across the ice. There was no sign of MacLea. Ahead was a black patch where one of the fishing holes had been broken open, exposing the dark water of the lake. Heart in his mouth, Murray ran towards the hole and slid to a stop beside it.

  Beneath the ice, something drifted in the water: the unconscious body of a man. His eyes were closed. It was impossible to tell if he was breathing.

  Beside Murray, Rebecca Morningstar did not hesitate. Taking a deep breath and raising her arms above her head, she jumped straight into the water.

  Chapter Eighteen

  In her youth in Canajoharie, the home of her heart, which she would never see again, they had played this game sometimes in winter, cutting holes in the ice and then swimming underwater between them. They had swum naked, because if their buckskins became sodden with water, the weight would drag them down to the bottom of the river, never to rise. It was dangerous, of course, but that was what made it fun. But she had been fourteen or fifteen then, and it was a long time ago.

  Now, Kanahstatsi could feel her waterlogged clothes dragging at her limbs, while the cold bit her flesh and clawed at her bones. She did not know for certain how long John MacLea had been in the water, and whether he still lived when his assailants pushed him through the ice, but her duty was clear. For Adonwentishon’s sake, for the sake of her people, she had to bring him back to the surface, and back to life. If she herself died in the process, so be it.

  MacLea’s body hung motionless in the water, bumping gently against the ice above. His clothing must also be soaked through, she thought; soon his body would begin to sink towards the dark bottom of the lake. Taking hold of his shoulders, she began to drag him back towards the fishing hole, a brighter patch amid the dim light reflecting down through the ice. The cold had numbed her hands so she could no longer feel them, and her lungs burned with pressure. A stream of air bubbles escaped her nose, rising towards the ice. The water boomed and bubbled in her ears as she struggled, fighting against the dead weight of the body and propelling it slowly back towards that circle of light.

  MacLea’s head was under the fishing hole. Kanahstatsi’s lungs felt like they were about to explode. Summoning all her remaining strength, she pushed the body up towards the surface. Sharp pains shot through her chest and sparks of light exploded behind her eyes, but then the body in her hands lurched upwards, and she knew someone on the ice was pulling MacLea out of the water.

  Kanahstatsi broke the surface, expelling the last of the oxygen from her lungs and sucking in fresh cold air with long, agonised gasps, while beside her Alec Murray rolled MacLea over with desperate haste and began pressing hard on his back, expelling the water that had filled his mouth and throat. She reached for the rim of the fishing hole and tried to drag herself out of the water, but her clothing was too heavy now, and she could not move. For a moment she panicked, think
ing she was stuck here, trapped in the water to freeze or drown. Then strong arms lifted her and laid her on the ice beside MacLea, where she lay for a few moments unable to move.

  After a while, she opened her eyes. Her rescuer was kneeling over her; it was Carson, the man the others had teased for being fat. He was not fat; he was instead immensely strong, and he had pulled her single-handed from the water, lifting her as if she were no heavier than a child. ‘Are you all right, ma’am?’ he asked.

  Her lungs felt like she had been stabbed in the chest, and she was shivering uncontrollably. ‘Does John MacLea live?’ she asked.

  Carson looked over at Murray and McTeer kneeling over the body.

  ‘He lives,’ said McTeer. ‘Thank God,’ he added, and all his normal humour had quite gone.

  ‘Then all is well,’ she said, and closed her eyes.

  * * *

  Something throbbed in MacLea’s head, a relentless and monotonous pulse of pain that gradually pulled him into full consciousness. His vision was blurred, and at first he could only make out vague shapes and shadows, but slowly his eyes began to focus and he realised he was in his room at Whitworth’s Hotel. Other aches and bruises, on his arms and ribs and back, began to make themselves known, competing for attention with his aching head. He remembered the shinney match, the bodies closing in around him and the hammering blows, but nothing more.

  ‘He’s awake.’

  MacLea tried to speak. Nothing happened at first, but after a while, a dry croaking sound emerged from his throat. ‘Alec? Is that you?’

  ‘Right here,’ said Murray. ‘We’re all here.’

  Slowly, and not without considerable effort, MacLea turned his head. Four people were there in the room. Murray. Josephine, her dark eyelashes wet. John Beverley Robinson, standing by the wall and frowning. And, wrapped in blankets and sitting next to the cast-iron stove, Rebecca Morningstar, watching him intently.

  ‘What happened?’ MacLea asked.

  ‘They set you up,’ Murray said. ‘Neither Boydell nor Givins made much effort to control who was on their team; anyone with a pair of skates could join in. Polaris must have found out you were intending to play and sent some of his thugs into the game. They trapped you, knocked you out and shoved you through a hole in the ice.’

  MacLea considered this, trying to concentrate through the pounding in his skull. ‘They wanted me to disappear,’ he said.

  ‘It looks like it,’ said Murray quietly.

  Two tears escaped from the corners of Josephine’s eyes, tracing silver tracks down her face. MacLea watched them, forgetting for a moment about his own pain. ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘Mrs Morningstar saw what had happened,’ said Robinson. ‘She alerted Mr Murray, and together they rescued you.’

  Murray shook his head. ‘The lady rescued you. She dived into the lake and pulled you from under the ice. All I did was squeeze the water out of you and thump you on the back until you were breathing again.’

  Thinking was still quite difficult. MacLea waited while this sank in. ‘Thank you,’ he said to Rebecca Morningstar. ‘I am very grateful to you. But… why do it?’

  No one answered at first. To his surprise, it was Josephine who spoke first. There were still tears on her face, but her voice was calm. ‘She has some bad news, John.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Rebecca Morningstar’s voice was low and slow, as if the cold, dark lake had seeped into her and no warmth could thaw her. ‘John Fanning is dead,’ she said.

  ‘How?’ MacLea asked.

  ‘Polaris killed him,’ said Rebecca.

  ‘I see.’ His brain was beginning to work more clearly. ‘A little detail might be helpful.’

  ‘His servants came to me this morning, worried that their master had not returned from a meeting last night. I searched and found marks of a struggle and blood in the snow, suggesting he had been abducted by force. I followed the tracks to a cabin in the woods, a mile from town. That is where I found him.’

  ‘Mrs Morningstar informed my constables and then went to the shinney match to find you,’ Robinson said. ‘That was when she saw the attack on you and ran to find Mr Murray.’

  ‘How was he killed?’ asked MacLea.

  ‘He had been stabbed in the heart,’ said Rebecca Morningstar.

  Robinson shuddered a little. ‘There was more to it than that. I don’t know what those devils did to him, but I have never seen a face like his, not on any man, living or dead. He looked like someone who had stared into the pits of hell.’

  MacLea paused, gathering his still scattered thoughts. ‘Mrs Morningstar,’ he said finally. ‘I cannot thank you enough for saving my life. But I need to know the truth. You and Fanning were working on some scheme together. What was it?’

  She regarded him, black eyes dark and unwavering, and for a moment MacLea was taken back to their first encounter, she standing silent and ghostlike at one end of Brown’s Bridge. ‘I should have told you before now,’ she said. ‘Adonwentishon gave me permission to take you into my confidence, should I wish to do so, but Fanning objected. He did not know you, and was not certain he could trust you.’

  ‘If he had, he might be alive now,’ said Murray.

  ‘I agree. But it is too late for regrets, would you not say?’

  In her face MacLea saw a lifetime of loss: her husband, her youth in Canajoharie, her people. ‘Who was Fanning?’ he asked.

  ‘He was our friend. Although he came from the south, in Carolina, he had moved north to Albany in New York State, and established a business there. He became friendly with some of our people, the Kanien’kehaka, the remnant who remained in America after the rest of us fled north. He saw how even after the peace, white settlers stole our land and drove our people from their homes. He became a friend and supporter of the Kanien’kehaka, and pleaded with the American authorities to protect them.’

  ‘I don’t imagine that made him very popular,’ Murray said.

  ‘No. The authorities made a great deal of trouble for him. He moved instead to Canada, where once again he sought out the Kanien’kehaka at the Grand River and befriended them. We had heard of him already, from our cousins in the south, and knew he was a good man. We called him Shawátis and adopted him as one of our own. As well as helping us, he also continued to send money to America to aid our people there. He smuggled weapons to them too, muskets and gunpowder and shot, so they could defend themselves against the settlers.’

  Robinson nodded. ‘We knew Fanning was secretly sending money back to America,’ he said. ‘But we never understood why.’

  ‘Fanning was our friend in other ways too,’ said Rebecca Morningstar. ‘As a leading merchant and an Assemblyman, he was privy to your high councils. He gave us much information about your plans and intentions, especially after the war began.’

  Robinson stared at her. ‘He spied on the British government? On your behalf?’

  ‘Exactly so,’ said the woman. ‘Just as your agents of the Indian Department spy on us. To return to Captain MacLea’s original question, when George Wilson came to see Adonwentishon, he told her of an American spy called Polaris who was working to undermine your government. He hoped that by revealing this secret to Adonwentishon, she would be persuaded to join his rebellion.’

  ‘But Adonwentishon refused,’ said Murray.

  ‘Yes. But she also saw an opportunity. If she herself could discover the identity of this spy Polaris, who poses such a threat to you, she could use the information to bargain with your government. She could extract concessions, guarantee our land rights, curb the power of the Indian Department. And so she instructed Fanning to find Polaris, and sent me to observe him and lend assistance if needed.’

  ‘My God!’ said Robinson. ‘She was going to blackmail us! Unless we gave her everything she wanted, she would hold back the information about Polaris! That is damnable!’

  ‘Is it, Mr Robinson?’

  ‘Of course it is! We’re at war, for God’s sake!�
��

  ‘We did not start this war,’ said Rebecca Morningstar. ‘Nor did we desire it. For the sake of past friendship, we have agreed to help you. Will the assistance we now give you be repaid in future? We do not know. But if we had the secret of Polaris, we could force you to give us guarantees in exchange for that secret.’

  ‘This is not how allies treat each other,’ said Robinson.

  ‘Is it not? Then I suggest you study the history of diplomacy more closely,’ she said. ‘And I might add that driving us off our ancestral lands, corrupting us with alcohol and laying us waste with disease is not exactly the action of a kind friend either. Adonwentishon is the mother of her people. Their destiny, their survival is all that matters to her.’

  Josephine broke the silence that followed. ‘Did Fanning find Polaris?’ she asked.

  ‘No. He had strong suspicions of Elijah Dunne – as I believe do you, Captain MacLea – but no evidence to support them. More recently, he told me he was exploring another path, although I did not understand what he meant. He was reading a book, one he had acquired from the library, on the subject of animal magnetism.’

  ‘What is that?’ asked Murray.

  ‘I do not know,’ Rebecca Morningstar said. ‘The book was by a man called Mesmer. I know nothing more than that.’

  Josephine gave a little gasp. ‘Mesmer,’ she said, her eyes wide. ‘Oh dear God, of course! That explains everything. It is the glass harmonica.’

  The others stared at her. ‘You will have to explain, ma’am,’ said Robinson.

  ‘Mesmer is a doctor, originally from Vienna. He developed a theory that there is a vital force in the human body and mind that he calls animal magnetism. It is possible for skilled practitioners to control this magnetism in others, to the extent that they can cause other people to feel emotions such as pleasure, sorrow or fear. Sometimes these involuntary emotions are so strong that the person loses control of their body and mind. They become magnetised, spellbound by an invisible force.’