“Pas de probleme, Monsieur le Colonel, they may stay where they are. We will look after your sick and wounded and send them to you as soon as they have recovered. Now, there is as well the matter of French and Canadian prisoners taken by you since the start of the war. They are to be returned to us.”
“D’accord, mon Général. Mais …” Young shot a quick look at the Indians.
Montcalm followed his glance and nodded. He summoned three of the translators and spoke to them quickly, repeating the terms of the surrender. In turn, the translators, two Canadians and one Indian, explained them to each of the chiefs in his own language.
Alhanase the Huron spoke French and did not require a translation. Still he listened carefully in case he had misunderstood what he’d heard earlier. He had not. He rose. The other chiefs did the same.
“They understand?” Montcalm asked anxiously. “They agree?”
“They understand perfectly,” one of the translators assured him.
“And agree,” Montcalm said again.
This time it was Alhanase rather than one of the translators who replied. “Il a parlé, Onontio.” Onontio has spoken. “Il a arrangé les choses àla Cmokmanuk. He has arranged things the Cmokmanuk way. “Nous comprenons.” We understand.
Alhanase and the other chiefs knew their young braves would not be so accepting of this outrage. They had fought well, for nothing but meager rations and a few gifts given when they had first agreed to once more take up the tomahawk on behalf of Onontio. Now the enemy was beaten, yet Onontio’s warrior sons were being denied the fruits of their victory. They would have no plunder, no scalps, the fat of their enemies would not fill their empty bellies, and worst of all, they would have no captives to bring home to replace the many who had died. A father—Onontio—did not behave in such a manner.
As arranged, every member of the English garrison able to walk or ride left the fort a few hours after the terms of the surrender were concluded. They filed out under the gaze of restless braves, who mocked and taunted them, making threatening gestures that the English pretended to ignore. A broad ravine separated the fort and the camp where they were to spend the night. The moment they crossed it a number of braves rushed into the fort. The rangers had made sure to bury whatever rum the garrison didn’t take with them, but the Indians found it, and drank it, complaining mightily at how little plunder was to be had in the all-but-empty fort. Only one thing worth having had been left behind.
The braves made their way to the infirmary and slaughtered and scalped the wounded. There were some protests, but the Canadians who were supposed to be caring for the sick mostly stood back and watched.
Just before sundown more bands of braves entered the camp on Mount Titcomb, many more than the French regulars who stood guard duty. “Stave the kegs. Hurry,” someone murmured. The word was passed and holes were bashed in the eleven barrels of rum the English had brought with them, the contents allowed to soak into the ground. The Anishinabeg—Potawatomi and Nipissing and Ottawa and Huron—did not need more drink. Their blood was heated with rage that having accomplished so much, they were to be repaid with so little. For a time they prowled the camp, demanding clothes and jewelry and making threatening gestures. They paid particular attention to the women, playing with their long hair as if reminding them of the possibility they could lose it. Eventually the French guards turned them out.
Alhanase the Huron stood apart and watched. The medicine bag that hung round his neck contained a rare thing, a single blue-black Súki bead carved with a spider, ancient and beautiful. A reminder of the old days, of a time when the Anishinabeg lived alone and made both war and peace in their own fashion. There were some Ottawa here, but only a few, and those not led by Pontiac. Perhaps the powerful Ottawa war chief was correct. Perhaps separation could bring the old days back Perhaps if the English were allowed to win they would divide the earth of this place they called the New World between themselves and the Real People. Like the others, Alhanase had trusted the French, accepted their war belt, but Onontio was not a father if he asked his sons to fight and die and get nothing in return. Perhaps this was to be the last battle.
Even so, Alhanase knew, it was not yet over.
At dawn a detachment of three hundred French soldiers led the Englilsh down the road toward Fort Edward. The redcoats and the colonial militia marched behind them. The defeated men carried their muskets, but in accordance with the terms of the surrender no ammunition and no bayonets. The women and children were in the rear of the long line, at least a league behind the armed French who might protect them.
Hamish and Taba watched from their hidden grotto, their stomachs cramping with hunger. Their combined jerky and biscuits had run out three days earlier. Hamish’s canteen had been dry still longer. The Scot had managed to coUect a bit of rainwater during a night’s downpour, and two cabbages and four ears of maize from the fort’s garden on the one foray he’d risked. They’d survived on that, and on luck Last night a painted Indian had found the entrance to their hiding place. A sudden darkening of the light was all the warning Hamish had. Hamish figured it to have been the brave’s surprise at discovering the cave that gave him time to plunge his dirk into the Indian’s throat before he could shout. He’d pidled the corpse the rest of the way into the grotto so it would not be found. Sharing the cave with a dead body gave him and Taba less room than they’d had before, but he knew it was better than what waited for them if they tried to get away. They would be butchered alive, like the Sassenachs Hamish was watching die on the road below.
Could be hunger had made him light-headed. Maybe that’s why the sight of the Indians attacking the unarmed English seemed like a dream. Hamish watched it without any real feeling, as if it were a mummery at a summer fair in the Highlands when he was a lad.
The women and children were dealt with first. They were guarded only by a few Canadians who stood by and did nothing while young wives in their prime were captured and carried off into the forest, and older ones were tomahawked and scalped. Babes and the very young were hacked apart and thrown aside; only the older ones were taken alive. From where he watched the Scot could see their mouths open, but it seemed to him he could not hear the screams. Maybe because he did not want to hear them.
The provincial militia came next. Most were made to hand over their clothes and their muskets as if they were bargaining for their lives, or thought they were. A few managed to escape naked into the woods, the rest were tomahawked and scalped and left for dead. After a time the chaos spread far enough so the redcoats farther up the column understood what was happening in the rear and doubled back to do what they could, though with no shot for their muskets it was not much. At last the French soldiers at the column’s head turned around and tried to restore order. By now the savages were screaming and whooping and dancing. There was no hope the French could simply command them to leave off, but no one gave the order to fix bayonets, much less to fire. They couldn’t, Hamish knew; not unless they want to lose the allegiance of the savages. And that was their best advantage in this war where, taken all together, the English outnumbered them many times over.
Screams of triumph and terror echoed off the forested hills, and when silence came it was because there were no more Sassenachs or Americans to be killed.
Hamish and the girl stayed hidden another day, surviving on a few filched carrots and some ears of maize that Hamish got by chancing another crawl on his belly to the edge of the garden in the field and back again. The odor of roasting and boiling meat rose from every side and competed with the stench of the rapidly decaying Indian corpse that shared the grotto with them. It was the first time Hamish ever knew himself not to salivate at the smell of cooked flesh. Maybe because it was the slaughtered Sassenachs the Indians were cooking and eating. Once he saw a brave offer a French soldier a joint fresh from the fire and dripping with fat. The man recoiled and the savage and his friends laughed.
Hamish saw other vigorous discussions between the F
rench and their Indian allies. He could tell they were bargaining, but not what for, or what the outcome might be. The next morning the Indians began to leave, sated with blood and laden with plunder, piling it into their canoes and at the last moment bringing their captives out of the woods, roped together with cords around their necks.
As soon as the canoes were out of sight the French and the Canadians set to work demolishing the fort and dragging as many dead bodies as they could find to the center of a huge pyre. They set it alight and left; the blaze burned most of the day and a good part of the following night. In that firelit dark Hamish took the girl by the hand and led her away from the grotto. They walked upright now because he was sure there was not a soul left alive in the vicinity, except for themselves and the wolves coming down from the hills to feast on what carrion remained.
There was game and fish aplenty in the woods. Hamish had his dirk Hunger was no longer a problem, though it was a while before either of them could eat. The memory of what they’d seen had closed their bellies and their mouths. The girl told him her name, Taba, and he said he was Hamish—“I’m your master now, lass. And you’ve naught to fear if you do what you’re told”—but little else. He did not think she knew he was taking her back the way she came until, after an eleven-day trek, she saw Shadowbrook sitting atop its gentle rise, its white walls turned to pink by a fiery sunset in the hills behind.
Taba screamed and tried to run but Hamish had expected that. He was on her before she could get away, hoisting her like a sack of oats as he had that first night, and carrying her forward despite her desperate attempts to break free. “Easy, Taba lass. I told you you’d naught to fear and I dinna lie. Just be easy while I attend to what’s necessary.”
“So, Hamish Stewart the Scot, returning my property. I’m delighted, man, though not more than I’m surprised. I just ordered the broadsides and—”
“She’s not your property. And I dinna see any broadside.”
“You couldn’t have. I just ordered them printed and put up around Albany,” John Hale said, ignoring the first statement. “There’s a reward often guineas for the return of my runaway Ibo slave, Taba. You shall have—”
“Keep your money, John Hale. What you have on your wretched self is yours as well. I’ll na take it from you. And you can pack your personal things and take them besides. You’ve an hour to get ready and be gone.”
“In Christ’s name, Stewart, what are you talking about?”
They were in the small square room off the front hall where Mistress Lorene spent most mornings planning the household’s work Her desk was against one wall. There was a serving table beside it with sides that lifted to make it larger. More times than she could count, Taba had polished both until she could see her face in the golden grain.
She was curled up under the desk now because it seemed the only thing to do. Mistress wasn’t here, but mostly she was kind to Taba. Maybe her kindness was in this place. So Taba crawled under the desk and tried to think of kindness covering her up.
“I dinna wish to incommode your mother. She can take a few days to pack if she needs them.”
“I think you’re mad,” John said quietly. “But it’s no affair of mine. Get out, Stewart. You’re welcome to the reward since I promised it, but with or without your ten guineas, get out of my house and off my land.”
“I’m not mad, however much you might wish it, you God-rotting heretic bastard The Hale Patent is mine.” Hamish reached into the pocket inside his hunting shirt. He’d been carrying the deed since he’d been to New York City the month before. “Every scrap o’ the original grant,” he said, offering the papers to Hale. “Including Bright Fish Water and the Great Carrying Place.” That’s why he’d gone up there to see the condition of the fort and see if it made any sense to insist the Sassenachs withdraw immediately. No need to worry about that now. Burned to the ground the fort must be. Na a trace left by now.
“The three of ‘em signed. Oliver De Lancey, Hayman Levy, and the lawyer Alexander. And it was witnessed by the governor o’ New York Province, James De Lancey himself.” Hamish said, holding out the bundle of papers. “Take a look, John. Do my heart good to see you read the thing.”
John did not want to touch the papers. If he actually held them and read them, this nightmare might turn out to be real, not simply a feverish dream caused by too much rum. But the names. The three names. By God in heaven, how could this lout of a Jacobite with one eye know that De Lancey, Levy, and Alexander held a lien on the property? He put out his hand, doing his best to keep it from trembling, and the Scot slapped the sheaf of papers onto his open palm.
“Take your time, you blighted bastard. I’ll enjoy seeing you ponder every word.”
John staggered a few steps to the desk and sat down. Taba pushed herself back against the wall.
John untied the papers and opened the top one. It seemed to be the original hen that he’d signed nearly three years before. Patience, James Alexander had advised last spring. The run-up to war and the war itself, that’s what the delay was about, that’s why they had not yet succeeded in finding suitable land in the Islands. Things were bound to change eventually. Jesus bloody Christ, that was his signature on the bottom no mistaking it. “How did you get this?” The words came out high-pitched and shrill, like an old man’s croak.
Hearing the shock in Hale’s voice was a fine thing. Almost as fine as watching him go pale when he realized what he had in his hands. Telling him what had been done was even better. Hamish savored every word. “Wi’ money, o’ course. How else does a man get what he wants? Read the next one, why don’t you? It’s the making over o’ the lien to me. Paid in full, it says. Right at the top.”
John put down the first sheet and unfolded the second. “This is an outrage! It can have no standing before any judge in—”
“It’s got every standing, you blighted bugger. Do you think I’d o’ come here wi’out? Ha’ you not yet figured what I’ve been doing in God-rotting Albany these past four years? Or how I’ve been planning and working for this since the day your father first showed me the place. It’s mine, you twisted heretic. It’s the Stewart Patent now.”
Hamish reached for the papers, but this time John was the quicker. He grabbed them with one hand and crumpled them into a tight ball. Jumping to his feet he looked wildly around for a place to dispose of them. The fireplace was the obvious choice, but it was August. There was no fire.
Hamish’s roar of laughter filled the room. “You’re every bit the feeble-brained idiot Annie Crotchett says you are. What do you take me for, man? Do you think I’d hand o’er the only proof o’ my ownership to you? Governor De Lancey had copies made o’ the entire transaction. They’re lodged wi’ him, under his private seal. I said you’d an hour to get out. You’ve used the half o’ it. If you want to take anything wi’ you other than the clothes you’re standing up in, you’d best see about packing.”
John lunged. Hamish was expecting it. He moved quickly to one side, spinning around as he did so. They finished facing each other, the Scot with a dagger in his hand. John, with no weapon but his rage.
“Come on, you God-rotting heretic,” Hamish taunted. “Come after me and I’ll send you straight to hell where you belong. I canna wait to claim the privilege.”
The last time John had seen a dagger of that sort it had been in his brother’s hands, and, it was this very same Scots bastard who’d given it to him. “Quent!” The word burst forth like a curse. “My brother sent you here.”
“Your brother’s nothing to do wi’ this. I’ll deal wi’ him as well. But later. Right now it’s your turn.” Hamish pushed forward; all his weight on his leading leg, and swung his arm in an underhanded thrust. The six-inch blade of the dirk sliced through the flesh of John’s left underarm in an upward curve, severing the muscle and stopping at the bone of the shoulder.
John staggered backward, screaming in agony and collided with the brick of the fireplace wall. The heavy brass and iron
poker hung on a hook He swung it free with his right hand and lunged again, still screaming, swinging the poker above his head.
Hamish waited until the last possible second, then stepped to his left. John came after him again. He landed one blow that opened a cut above the Scot’s empty eye socket. Hamish thrust forward, but this time the blade of the dirk sliced through only the cloth of John’s shirt. Hamish twisted out of the way of the poker’s next assault, skidded on a slick of blood, and went down.
John stood above him, one leg either side of the Scot’s prone form, and raised the poker over his head.
Taba had crawled out from under the desk when the fight began. She didn’t know when she’d reached for Mistress Lorene’s silver scissors, but they were in her hand. Master John, he was going to kill Hamish. Hamish said he was her master now. But if he was dead, it was Master John again. And not a question in Taba’s mind about which one was better.
She hurled herself at John’s back, holding the scissors straight out in front of her. The poker began its descent toward Hamish’s skull. The Scot snapped his legs wide apart, destroying both the force and the direction of the poker blow and bringing John Hale down in a sprawling heap; Hale’s head hit the floor with such force the crack was audible. Hamish roared and sat up, ready to throw Hale’s body off to the side. Taba had no opportunity to check her forward motion and no time to register the changed positions of the two men. The scissors plunged into Hamish’s chest to the hilt of the fancy silver handles.
“Little George, take a wagon and go to the sawmill.” Lorene’s voice was like a cold wind cutting through the heat of hate in the room.
She had stood in the open door since her son’s bloodcurdling scream had brought her running down from the linen room where she’d been folding blankets. The house slaves were all clustered behind her. She knew they were there without having to turn her head. They were straining to see over her shoulders into the chaos beyond. “Little George,” she repeated, “you take a wagon and two fast horses. Go to the sawmill and get Sally Robin. Tell her Master John’s been attacked and his arm’s nearly cut off so she’ll know what to bring. Clemency, take the child away. I don’t think she’s hurt”
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