“Call them special forces on special assignment. London must at least consider the plan. Look what the traditional methods have gotten them. Not a single success. Just dead—”
De Lancey raised a forestalling hand and set the wineglass on the table, then took a lace-edged pocket cloth from the sleeve of his ruffled shirt. “Let us give ourselves what credit we’re due.” Dabbing at his Ups between the words. “We’ve pretty much driven the French out of l’Acadie.”
“Not much of a return for so much loss.”
The governor shrugged. “Something. And done without your rangers, if I may say so. More malmsey, Mr. Hale?”
“No, thank you. Look, they took Beauséjour by a freak, a once-in-a-lifetime accident.” De Lancey looked as if he hadn’t heard the story so Quent told him about the officers all having loose bowels and being in the latrine when the cannonball landed. “Something about a bad chicken. How many bad chickens do you think we can get the French officers to eat, Governor?”
De Lancey was smiling. “It’s an amusing tale, sir, whether or not it’s true. But say it is; say Beauséjour is not proof that the traditional means of warfare will succeed here. How do you propose convincing our colonial woodsmen to fight with the redcoats? That doesn’t sound to me as if it would be a popular notion.”
“It might not be, unless you could promise them that when they had defeated the French they would be free of any Indian attacks, that they and their families and their farms would not be harried by any red men ever again.”
De Lancey put down his glass and sat forward, peering into his visitor’s face. “In Christ’s name, sir, how could you promise that?”
Quent felt his excitement start to build. He had De Lancey’s full attention at last. “Because, sir, I can deliver an agreement with the Indians to share this land in peace. Once we throw the French out, they have Canada, and we have these English colonies.”
There it was, in the open, the thing that Cormac Shea had been agitating for since boyhood, that a few other visionaries had suggested from time to time, that Quent had always known to be the only way his two worlds could coexist if somehow it could be made to happen. It was the first time he’d said it to someone he didn’t already know to be convinced, and the earth, he noted, had not opened up and swallowed either of them.
De Lancey sat back and sipped his wine and studied his visitor. Quent watched him and waited. One of the logs on the fire bled a trickle of pitch. Leaping tongues of flame shot toward the chimney.
“If anyone else had brought me such a notion …” De Lancey’s voice was low, the bluster and the false bonhomie both gone, “a notion that depends on getting a dozen different Indian tribes to agree to a single course of action … anyone else I’d have put out of my house as a madman. But Uko Nyakwai … Yes, perhaps.”
“It’s a workable plan,” Quent said. “Maybe the only workable plan.”
“Your friend, the métis with the Irish name, he’s in this with you, I expect.”
“Cormac Shea. You’re well-informed, Governor. Not many people realize we’re friends. Quite a few assume we’re enemies.”
“I would have said more than friends. I would have said almost brothers.”
“As I said, sir, you’re well-informed.”
De Lancey shrugged. “The Hale Patent may seem to be its own kingdom, Mr. Hale, but it is in the Province of New York It is my duty to know what goes on in New York.”
How much gossip had he heard, Quent wondered. Tales of the two squaws, Pohantis and Shoshanaya. And he’d know Lorene Hale was a Devrey, with powerful relations here in New York City. Likely he knew about John as well and what sort of a master of the Hale Patent John was turning out to be.
De Lancey chose that moment to say, “I am remiss, sir. I have neglected to offer my condolences on the recent death of your father.”
“A year now,” Quent said. “But I thank you for your kindness. Governor, the business at hand … If I can deliver such a promise from the red men—alliance at best, neutrality at the least—until the French are defeated. Then what?”
“All the red men. That’s what you said.”
“Enough as will make the scheme work,” Quent promised. The Anishinabeg who were longtime French allies, the Huron and the Abenaki and the Potawatomi among them, would be the easiest to convince. If they believed that once Onontio was defeated all Canada would be theirs as it had been before the Europeans arrived, they were sure to fall into line. As for the Ohio Country, he could convince Shingas and Scarouady. Hell, they were longing to be convinced. Most of the other chiefs—Mingo, Delaware, Shawnee—would come round after they did.
“It’s a daring scheme, Mr. Hale.”
“These times call for daring, Governor. Without it we shall drown in a river of blood.”
“A river of blood. Yes, perhaps. Very well, say I accept your idea in principle, exactly what is it you wish me to do?”
“First, convince London to accept the rangers. Get a promise they’ll abide by what they’re told about how to fight here.”
“That’s the easy part, Mr. Hale. A few battles won will convince them. I take it that my second task is to secure a promise that after victory, we will not permit English settlement to extend into the lands now occupied by the French. That’s what you have in mind, isn’t it?”
Quent nodded.
“Remarkable,” De Lancey murmured. “And considerably more difficult to do.”
The acting governor’s mind was racing, trying to blend this extraordinary proposal with what he already knew—and to see how both sets of intelligence could be made to work to his advantage.
De Lancey’s most trusted source had told him that a new commander for the military here in America had already been appointed, that he had been instructed to operate under Braddock’s original plan of attack, and that he was to be sent over with two understrength regiments and the authority to raise four thousandman battalions here in the colonies. In other words, to do what was asked of him, this new man—John Campbell, earl of Loudoun, a Scot—would require thousands of American volunteers. Young men accustomed to the freedom of the vast American wilderness where they called no man master, and to farms where, however humble the holding, the farmer was a freeman not a tenant; boys raised on the give-and-take of town meetings and raucous colonial assemblies—such lads as these were expected to voluntarily submit themselves in the thousands to service in the British regulars where discipline was paramount and the lash ruled. It was a notion more insane than anything De Lancey had heard from Quentin Hale. John Campbell, earl of Loudoun would need to be a worker of miracles to put it into action.
Moreover, neither Britain nor France had yet declared war. Instead the French had made a great show of withdrawing their ambassador from London, claiming to have been attacked without provocation on the Monongahela; never mind that they had won. That diplomatic ruse would give them ample time to build up their navy and send over enough men and arms to protect Canada, as well as threaten every American colony from New Hampshire to North Carolina. Meanwhile William Pitt, the one man in England who might have brought some sense to this madness, was despised by the king and made an outcast by his enemies.
The silence continued for some time, broken only by the sounds of the crackling fire and the rain hitting the windows. Quent did not think it in his best interests to be the first to speak Take as long as you need, Governor. You’ve only two rather simple ideas to get straight. We assign woodsmen to teach the bloody redcoats how to fight in America, and in return for not fighting with the French, we offer the Indians all of Canada once the battle’s won. An end to war for both sides. You’re not likely to hear a more audacious plan. And I doubt you’ve heard a better one. What remains to be seen is the size of the balls in those white satin breeches.
“Mr. Hale, I apologize if I seem to be changing the subject, but do you know the name William Pitt?”
Quent shook his head. “No. Should I?”
“N
o, perhaps not.” You and Pitt … a pair of visionaries, who knows what you might have accomplished together? It’s an intriguing thought. But Pitt’s not really in charge in parliament, and you, sir, are a landless second son with only one advantage—the ability to make the Indians listen to you—and that is prized litde by our masters in London. Still, your ideas are best not dismissed out of hand.
De Lancey got up and went to the window. They had been talking for nearly two hours, and it was almost eleven. The rain had let up some and the governor could see a bit of the fort and the harbor beyond it, and more of the grand houses across from his in this most fashionable part of the city. Many of the windows still had lighted candelabra glowing behind the curtains. They did not retire early here on the Broad Way in what they called the court part of town. “Remarkable,” he murmured again. “Uko Nyakwai will deliver the red men and the woodsmen if …” De Lancey spun round and faced his visitor. “What else, Mr. Hale?”
“Why should there be anything else?”
“Because it has suddenly dawned on me that a piece of the puzzle is missing. What do you get in return for all this effort?”
“Oh, that.” Quent sat back, stretching his long legs in their buckskin trousers toward the glow of the governor’s fire.
“Yes, that,” De Lancey said.
“Nothing that will cost you a farthing, Governor. I wish only to return to the status quo ante, for things to be as they were.”
De Lancey had gotten over his amazement at a buckskin-dad woodsman who spoke like an educated man and knew one kind of malmsey from another. That he could also quote Latin was not a surprise. “What things?”
“The Hale Patent,” Quent said. “My brother has made over to yours—”
“Which of my brothers?” De Lancey interrupted. “Oliver?”
“Oliver De Lancey, yes.”
“I should have imagined as much. Very well, please continue, Mr. Hale. Made over what?”
“Certain lands that belong to us, and have always—”
“Lake George. That’s what you’re talking about, isn’t it?”
“Bright Fish Water.” Quent insisted on giving the lake its proper name. “I understand its strategic value, and that of the Great Carrying Place and the surrounding lands.” Poor old Thoyanoguin being killed up by Bright Fish Water was a bad thing, but useful. The Kahniankehaka would not easily forgive the way it had happened, not in battle but at the hands of women and boys. They’d want revenge. Easy to get them to agree to fight with the English if they were handled correctly. Never mind. He’d deal with the Kahniankehaka later. Now was the time for convincing James De Lancey. “Use Bright Fish Water and the Great Carrying Place for the duration of this conflict, Governor. I understand the necessity—”
“I’ve heard we took an important captive up at Lake George.”
Quent at once recognized the test. How much did he really know? How good was his information? “Baron Dieskau, yes, that’s what I hear as well.”
“It’s true, then?” De Lancey prodded.
“It’s true.”
“A remarkable victory, wouldn’t you say? Shows that we aren’t getting everything wrong, despite what you say.”
What it shows, Quent thought, is that despite his Kahniankehaka adoption and his Kahniankehaka wife, William Johnson is still more Cmokman than Anishinabeg. Thoyanoguin’s braves were incensed about the way he died. They stood outside the fort where Johnson was holding Dieskau and jeered and cursed and promised revenge. The only sensible thing to do was to hand the baron over, but Johnson wouldn’t do it. “General Johnson is doing what you’d expect a gentleman to do,” Quent said. “Keeping his prisoner safe. But there may be a price to pay for that, Governor.”
“What kind of a price?”
“I can’t say exactly. But the Kahniankehaka, the Mohawk, they have a pretty strong sense of honor of their own. It’s been violated.”
De Lancey already knew one price being paid for the capture of Dieskau. Just yesterday he’d heard that the man the French were sending to replace the baron was an even more formidable soldier. “Louis Joseph, marquis de Montcalm,” he said. “Ever heard of him.”
Quent shook his head. “No, I have not. Governor—”
De Lancey knew he’d pushed as far as he could. Time to stop trying to get more information, or anything else for that matter, any kind of real commitment. Not without having the price spelled out and plain between them. “As you were saying, Mr. Hale?”
“Simply that I ask for your solemn word that when this is done and the French are defeated, you will make the Patent whole according to the original Royal Grant.”
De Lancey was still standing at the window. He nodded, but the gesture was not agreement, simply a mark of understanding. Both men saw it as such. “What else?” he asked.
From the moment he was shown into De Lancey’s study, Quent had known this would be the most difficult of the difficult things he had come to say. Time to play the final card. “John Hale and Oliver De Lancey have entered into an agreement to exchange the Patent for cane land in the Islands.”
“I see. Cane land in return for the Hale Patent. It’s an intriguing idea.” And one that would give Oliver entirely too much power in the province. I wonder, Quentin Hale, for all your devotion to the place, do you have any notion what a piece of land like the Hale Patent could be if the French threat to the north were removed? “Mr. Hale, perhaps I’ve misunderstood and you can enlighten me … Surely only the owner of the property could enter into such an agreement. Is John not the elder son, the legal owner of Shadowbrook since your father’s death?”
“He is.”
“Well, then?”
“A man can do what is legal and still not do what is right, Governor.”
“Indeed, Mr. Hale. Very well, I take your point. But I don’t see how I—”
“I believe your brother and two of his friends are to share in the arrangement in return for putting it in place. I expect their reward is to be part ownership of the sugar plantation.”
I’m sure that’s what Oliver wants them to believe. But compared to sole ownership of the Hale Patent … Don’t be a fool. No, De Lancey corrected himself, do be a fool. That suits my purposes. “Yes, that sounds entirely plausible.” The governor left his place beside the window and returned to his seat. “And you do not wish this … arrangement, as you called it, to come to fruition?”
“I do not.”
“No trading of land here for land in the Islands?”
“None. The Hale Patent must remain inviolate.”
Just the day before, James De Lancey had put his brother Oliver’s name forward to be the American correspondent of the London firm with the supply contracts for the entire British army in New York. The appointment was worth a fortune, thousands of pounds a year. And it was in the governor’s gift. That would give him excellent leverage with Oliver. “I see your drift, Mr. Hale.” De Lancey reached for the decanter of malmsey. “Now, I believe more wine is definitely called for. We must drink a toast to our—” He’d been going to say “bargain,” but he broke off. Never wise to give too much too soon. He filled both glasses and raised his own. The firelight and the candlelight danced on his blue damask sleeve and the ruffled lace cuff of his shirt, caused his ruby ring to sparkle. “Our plans, Mr. Hale,” De Lancey toasted. “And our good intentions. And, above all, the king.”
Quent raised his arm. The buckskins had never looked more incongruous. “The king,” he said. “And our plans.”
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 1755
THE OHIO COUNTRY
A pile of arrows lay on the ground between Cormac the Potawatomi métis and Pontiac the Ottawa war chief. Corm wore a breechclout—first time since he’d left Singing Snow more than a year before—and beaded bracelets on his arms and ankles, and because there was a thin coating of frozen snow on the ground, the elk—fur robe that had been Bishkek’s parting gift. He squatted and picked up one of the arrows and snapped it easily
in half. Then he looked at Pontiac.
The Ottawa ran his hand over his head. Most of his scalp was shaved clean, except for a central tuft of hair braided with many beads and decorated with three feathers. “The last time we met my hair was long like yours.” Cormac’s hair hung to his shoulders and a single eagle feather was fastened in the back. “Now,” Pontiac continued, “I wear the scalp lock of war. In the summer the Potawatomi fought beside the Ottawa and the Abenaki in the great battle not far from here. Where was Cormac Shea then?”
“I have been honored to listen to the stories of the bravery of Pontiac and his warriors. All Canada knows what you accomplished at the battle of the Monongahela.”
“But you were not here then,” Pontiac persisted. “Now you come and break my arrows. Why? Do you challenge me to fight?”
Cormac shook his head. “Co. I challenge you not to fight.” He snapped another arrow into two halves, then gathered the rest and bundled them tightly together with a thin strip of leather. Finally he stood up. “Here, I return your arrows to you. Now, I challenge you to break them.”
Pontiac took the arrows, but he made no attempt to break them in two. “I cannot,” he acknowledged. “As long as they stay together, these arrows cannot be broken, neya?” Cormac nodded his assent. “As I recall,” Pontiac continued, “when we were last together it was I who spoke of the strength that comes from union.”
“Ahaw, it was indeed Pontiac who spoke wisdom on that occasion. That’s why I’m here now. I have important things to say to Pontiac the great war sachem. I wish to demonstrate that I understand the lessons he taught when we met before.” Corm touched the medicine bag that hung around his neck. It was the first time he had worn Memetosia’s gift openly.
The white medicine bag with red symbols was the first thing Pontiac had noticed when Cormac walked into his camp. Now at last he could speak of it without appearing to have no manners, or worse, to doubt the strength of his own medicine in comparison to that displayed by the métis. “Those are the signs of the Crane People, are they not?”
“They are. This medicine bag was given to me by the ancient and great Miami chief, Memetosia. A gift for all the Anishinabeg.” Half a dozen Ottawa braves stood near the two men. One spat on the ground the moment Cormac said the name Memetosia. The others made muttering sounds of disapproval.
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