Shadowbrook

by Swerling, Beverly

  “The Acadians are English subjects.” Nicole had ventured the explanation tentatively. Did they think her any less loyal to the French cause, the Catholic cause, because of her English father? “I do not defend what was done. Never. But the English could not send the Acadians to France because they were not supposed to be French any longer.”

  “Les Anglais are beasts.” Soeur Françoise, who seldom raised her voice above a whisper, practically shouted the words. “Cochons! Pigs! Every one of them.”

  Not my Red Bear, Nicole thought. But these stories of the American rangers who fight with the redcoats and the militia, who whoop like Indians when they kill and take scalps like Indians … Is my Red Bear among them? That night beside the fire in the Shawnee camp, when he danced and went off with a squaw into the woods, he was entirely Indian. But with me, in Shoshanaya’s glade … She bent forward, plying her darning needle with ferocity and letting her veil fall forward to hide her burning cheeks. Forgive me, mon Dieu, forgive my wicked distractions. “Is any explanation made for sending the civilians to France, ma Mère? Do we perhaps know if this is some tactic of the war?”

  Clever, Mère Marie Rose thought, just as Père Antoine said. Almost too clever to be a nun. What do I see in your eyes, ma petite Soeur? Something, I think, that is not in the eyes of the rest of us. “We are told nothing. Perhaps they wish to empty all Canada of the French.”

  Then she sent Nicole to toll the Maria bell in memory of the passing of the souls of the brave French soldiers who died defending Louisbourg, and for the misery of the survivors.

  Pull on the rope slowly and with total attention. Remember, ringing the bell is an act of prayer. Bend your knees as you take it down. Release it with equal care. And because you toll not victory but defeat, wait for two strophes of the psalm before you ring it again.

  Miserere me, Deus. Have mercy on me, O God. Quoniam conculcavit me homo. For man has trodden me underfoot.

  To empty Canada of all the French had been Cormac Shea’s plan. She’d heard him and Quent arguing about it once. And later Monsieur Shea had explained it to her, when Quent wasn’t around to contradict him. “It’s the only way there will ever be peace in the New World. Canada for the Indians; the rest of it, the part the English have now, the whites can keep.”

  “It seems harsh, Monsieur Shea. On the Canadians. Is there no—”

  “Not as harsh as the alternative. The only other way the whites can live here without being constantly at war with the red men is to kill every Indian they can find.”

  Conculcaverunt me inimici mei tota die. My enemies have trodden on me all day long. Quoniam multi balantes adversum me. For they are many that make war against me.

  Before summer’s end the bells of Canada tolled again in mourning, this time for the fall of Fort Frontenac on Lake Ontario. The chain of forts that stretched from Canada to the Ohio Country was broken. “Protestant heretics can now overrun the Ohio Country,” Marie Rose said, her eyes filled with tears. “How will the poor Indians ever hear the true Gospel of Christ and His Catholic Church?”

  If they live at all, Nicole thought. If, as Monsieur Shea said, the white men do not find it necessary to kill every Indian they find.

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 23, 1758

  A MEADOW NEAR THE VILLAGE OF EASTON IN PENNSYLVANIA COLONY

  It was a gray, overcast day following three weeks of unrelenting rain, but at least this afternoon was dry. Cold, though. Corm had wrapped a blanket over his buckskins and stood by himself at the fringe of a large clearing in the eastern Allegheny foothills. He was an outsider here, a Canadian and a Potawatomi. Neither group had any standing in this powwow.Not like Quent. In this place he was Uko Nyakwai, the legendary Ohio Country woodsman, much more than he was Kwashko, the adopted Potawatomi brave, or Quentin Hale, gentleman. Corm watched Quent go from group to group, speak a few words, and move on.

  Use the Suckáuhodc to convince the Anishinabeg to fight with the English or stay neutral. Corm’s efforts with the Ottawa and the Huron and the Abenaki had been mostly of the stay-neutral variety. Quent was urging alliance.

  Five hundred Anishinabeg from thirteen nations had gathered beneath trees whose wet leaves shimmered with the red and gold of autumn. The Indians, many chiefs in full and solemn ceremonial dress, competed with them for splendor. The Delaware sachems Teedyuscung and Pisquetomen, who was the brother of Shingas, sat together. Corm counted sixty of Teedyuscung’s braves lined up behind him. Pisquetomen had only half a dozen councillors, but all the authority, Corm figured. Months before, Quent had given the Súki bead carved with pileewa, the turkey, to Shingas; it was almost a certainty that for this meeting he’d have passed it to his brother. Pisquetomen was a civil chief, Shingas a war sachem. Now was the time for Pisquetomen. Maybe Shingas later.

  The Iroquois had judged the meeting important enough to send chiefs of the individual tribes, rather than a single delegate to represent the Great Council of the Six Nations. Quent had already greeted Nichas of the Kahniankehaka, and the Seneca chief, Tagashata. Now he walked among the observer-delegates from the many small nations the Iroquois controlled. Corm identified Nanticoke, Tutelo, Chugnut, Minisink, Mahican … Ayi! Could even the snakes hold so many to whatever was agreed? Yes. Probably. They had been doing it for a very long time. And now they had the power of Eehsipana, the racoon, and Ayaapia, the elk buck, to add to their authority.

  He saw Quent press palms with a Nanticoke, then begin working his way toward the edge of the assembly. A tall white in the blue coat of the Virginia provincials stopped him and Corm recognized George Washington. Washington and Quent moved a bit to the side, speaking earnestly. After a time they parted and Quent hurried toward Corm. When he got close his face split in a huge grin. “I think—”

  “—it’s going to be good,” Corm finished for him.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because you’ve let your Cmokman spirit rise from your belly and mark your face.”

  Quent chuckled, then grew serious. “Listen, you don’t think … It’s not just for the Cmokmanuk, or for Shadowbrook. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I know that. What did your friend Washington have to say?”

  “He’s getting married. A Martha someone. A widow with two children, not to mention a fine piece of land that just happens to abut his.”

  “When’s the wedding to be?”

  “In January. He’s resigning his commission and going to stand for a seat in the Virginia House of Burgesses.”

  Corm started to say something, then stopped. “Teedyuscung’s turn,” he said, motioning to the chief who had walked to the center of the circle. “Could be we’re about to get to some real business.”

  They had been on this meadow for five days. One harangue had followed another, but most had been of an almost ritual nature, the orators showing their prowess, vying with each other to catalog a list of grievances with which everyone was already familiar. It is clear you white men have made this war. Why do you not fight in your Old World or on the sea? Why do you come and fight here in this World that is New to you, but Old to us? In true Anishinabeg fashion all the tribes had put their best talkers first. The English had sat through speech after speech trying not to let their impatience show. Now it was time for those who wielded real power to make their ideas known.

  Teedyuscung carried a string of wampum in his left hand. Slowly, with deliberate motions so everyone could count the number of turns, he wound it six times around his right wrist. Four turns had been the highest they’d seen so far. The Delaware chief was signaling that he had something to say of major importance.

  “Uncles”—he was looking at the Iroquois chiefs who had conquered his Delaware so long before—“you may remember that you have placed my people at Wyomink and Shamokin.” Teedyuscung gestured to his right and left, indicating the two nearby valleys.

  “Then sold the land out from under them,” Corm muttered.

  “Good old snakes,” Quent said. “Always to be
counted on. Listen, Washington told me—”

  Corm put up a hand. One of the Iroquois, an Oneida, had risen while Teedyuscung was still standing. He too had made six loops of wampum. He spoke quickly, with many gestures. Corm wasn’t sure he’d understood. “Did he say what I think he said? That the Great Council will let the Delaware continue to live in those valleys?”

  Quent’s Oneida was better, more practiced because of all the time he’d spent in these parts. “Yes, that’s exactly what he said.”

  “But just letting them stay won’t be enough. That’s typical Iroquois arrogance. If the Delaware think the snakes can sell them out again whenever they want, it won’t—”

  Quent put a hand on his arm. “Calm down. It’s not going to be like that this time. Wait.” A white man stood up and walked to the center of the circle. “He represents the Penns,” Quent whispered “The family.” The man began looping a string of wampum around his wrist. He got to six turns—matching Teedyuscung and the Oneida—then ostentatiously added a seventh.

  “Ayi! He’d better have something to back that up.”

  “He does. Both ears, Corm. It’s important.”

  The white man nodded in the directions of the two speakers before him, Teedyuscung and the Oneida chief. “I have heard what has been said by my Indian brothers. I wish it to be known that I speak to them with the voice of the Penn brethren to whom the English king gave this land.”

  There were impatient murmurings from all the Indians who had understood, joined by others as soon as the words had been translated for them.

  “That’s not going to make them any happier,” Corm began. “You know—”

  “Will you please shut your mouth and listen? He’s giving all the land west of the mountains to the Iroquois. Officially. On behalf of the Penn Family.”

  “How do you—” Corm broke off. It didn’t matter how Quent knew; it was clearly what had happened. A number of the Iroquois stood up. They were obviously delighted, smiling and nodding.

  “What about the Delaware?” Corm demanded. “Look at them. They seem ready to walk out.”

  “Ssh … Here comes the best part. That’s Denny, the governor of Pennsylvania.”

  Governor Denny started to speak, then realized he’d forgotten his wampum string. He looked around. An aide rushed forward with a rope of the tubular white beads, whispered something in the governor’s ear, then went back to his place. Denny began making loops of wampum around his wrist, his gestures clumsy and unpracticed, but clear enough to be counted. Seven turns. He was saying his words were as important as those of the man who had just given the Iroquois a gift worth a king’s ransom. He faced the Delaware. They looked at him intently, waiting.

  “I wish to tell our friends the Delaware that the chiefs and the people of Pennsylvania mean to kindle up again the old council fire in the city we call Philadelphia.”

  Neither Teedyuscung nor Pisquetomen said anything, but the braves and councillors behind them began murmuring among themselves.

  “We invite our friends the Delaware to send representatives to that Philadelphia fire,” Denny added.

  There was a collective intake of breath as everyone, Anishinabeg and Cmokmanuk, realized he was offering to negotiate directly with the Delaware in future; their claim to this land in the Delaware Valley was being officially recognized by the whites. It was a dramatic change: for many years Pennsylvania had refused to negotiate with anyone other than the Great Council, meaning they saw the Delaware as subject to the Iroquois.

  Pisquetomen sat cross-legged on the ground, in the front rank—but he turned his head so he could look at the snakes he despised, however many times he might call them his uncles. The Iroquois were staring straight ahead, making no objection to Denny’s words. Clearly they had known about the offer and given their consent, but that didn’t mean they could be trusted. Pisquetomen fingered his medicine bag and felt the outline of the blue-black Súki bead carved with pileewa, the turkey.

  Nichas the Kahniankehaka sachem was also seated in the front rank, and he also wore a medicine bag. He touched it, his gaze meeting that of Pisquetomen the Delaware. Uko Nyakwai said the Kahniankehaka had accepted eehsipana, the raccoon. The Red Bear was always truthful. Nichas inclined his head. The gesture was barely perceptible. Probably no one else had seen it, but Pisquetomen had no doubt of its meaning. The Great Council was promising to honor the agreements made here, swearing to do so by the power of the ancient beads that carried the spirits of all their ancestors.

  The brother of Shingas the mighty war sachem waited a moment more. If Teedyuscung objected to his speaking for all the Delaware he would say so now. There was no objection. Pisquetomen got to his feet and faced Governor Denny. “The Delaware accept your invitation. We will be glad to share the warmth of the old fire with our brothers in Philadelphia.”

  It was done. One way or another every Indian in the Ohio Country had promised to withdraw their allegiance from the French and, if asked, accept war belts from the English. Corm’s heart pounded in his chest. He turned to look at Quent “Good plan,” he said softly.

  “Good dream,” Quent answered.

  Three days of celebration drinking and feasting and whooping and dancing ended the Easton Conference. Corm and Quent were invited to the Kahniankehaka fire. They went as white men, wearing buckskins not breechclouts. On the last night they sat together, a slight distance separating them from their Kahniankehaka hosts. The sparks of the many fires rose like the fireflies of summer, and the smell of roasting meat put both men in mind of feasts long past. “How long since you’ve been in Singing Snow?” Quent asked.

  “Twelve moons. Leaf Falling last year.”

  “That’s bad.”

  “Ahaw, it is. You?”

  “Worse. Not since before we met in Québec. Has to be three years. You heard anything about Bishkek?”

  “Nothing. But he must be well. Someone would come looking for one of us otherwise. Pondise probably. He found you before, in New York City no less.”

  “Ahaw,” Quent agreed “Pondise is pretty good at looking. Speaking of which … You ever find that Acadian woman? Marni?”

  “Marni Benoit. No, I haven’t found her.”

  “Still looking?”

  “Ahaw.” Corm got to his feet. “I’m still looking.”

  Three weeks later the French who occupied Great Forks, the place where the Allegheny and the Monongahela rivers joined to form the Ohio, faced an oncoming force of the English and their Indian allies that outnumbered them five to one. The French garrison set Fort Duquesne alight and fled. The prize General Braddock and fifteen hundred men had died trying to capture was taken without a shot. Within hours the English began building Fort Pitt on the rabble of Fort Duquesne.

  Word of this latest disaster reached Québec on a bleak December day in the first week of Advent, when all the prayers of the Divine Office begged God for a savior to come and ransom mankind from the captivity of sin. Mère Marie Rose told her nuns the news at the recreation that followed their Monday dinner of stewed cabbage and, for each of them, a sixth part of a well-boiled duck egg left in the turn by a kind habitant

  “Dear Sisters,” the abbess announced as soon as the bell for recreation began, “the duck egg was the gift of a benefactor. It was for third portion.” She went on to the concerns of the outside world. “I must tell you the sad news that Fort Duquesne has fallen to the English.”

  “But what is to happen?” Soeur Joseph demanded. “How—”

  “We will do more penance. And pray harder for our soldiers, and for the poor heathen souls who will now be exposed to the Protestant heresy.”

  “And what of us here in Québec, ma Mère?” Soeur Angelique’s eyes were enormous—she was glowing with happiness. “Will the English come and kill us all, and make us martyrs who go straight to heaven?”

  “I think you must wait a bit longer for martyrdom, ma chère petite. Québec is inviolable. No English warship can pass through La Traverse.”r />
  Nicole’s heart beat fiercely, but she did not look up from her darning. A chart of the waters around Québec. So important that the defense of all New France depended on it and delivered by her into the hands of Monsieur le marquis de Montcalm.

  “Besides”—Soeur Celeste this time, practical as always—“whatever is to happen, martyrdom or anything else, you must wait until next summer, Angelique. It is almost winter. There will be no more war for the time being.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  TUESDAY, MARCH 18, 1759

  BAYOU ISOLÉ LOUISIANA

  THE CANOE GLIDED across the barely moving water of the bayou, carried on the sluggish current. Mostly Corm sat with his paddle across his knees, dipping it into the water only when he needed to adjust direction. A Cmokmanuk cabin on the right bank, he’d been told, hidden in the trees. He must look with both eyes if he was not to miss it.

  It was easy to miss anything here. The moss hung in whispering ropes that obscured and distorted the landscape. The only sound was the low hum of insects, and the occasional call of some bird he didn’t know. It was like being in a different world, like the chanting at a New Moon Telling. Haya, haya, jayek so, so, all of us together. The bayou too made your heart beat to a different rhythm, but not because you were one with others. Bayou Isolé was as lonely as its name. Marni’s place in Louisiana, if he ever found it, seemed to be at least as remote as her farm in l’Acadie.

  A couple of times he almost drifted into sleep, then pulled himself back with a surge of fear that he could be lulled into such a dangerous lapse in a strange place. Probably didn’t matter. He’d spent a couple of days with some local Choctaw and they were friendly enough; alligators were the only thing to worry about, and so far he hadn’t seen any. The one you are looking for, the squaw. She eats kokotni.