“The Senecas—the Iroquois—have been England’s allies for a long time.”
“But they may not choose to be this time. I’ve been listening to my mother and to the sachems in the longhouse. They see no point to another war with the French in which we lose men and gain nothing. They think the right path for the Senecas—and the whole Iroquois league—is to remain neutral.”
“That’s impossible. And disgraceful!”
“Is it? You’re talking like a white man, Malcolm. I’m talking—and thinking—like a Seneca.”
“I’m talking—and thinking—like an American. This time the French are throwing down a gauntlet. They’re saying only one of us will rule this continent. If we can drive out the French, the Americans will be in a position to deal with the English. To insist on taking charge of this continent as their own country. That will mean a better life for everyone here, including the Iroquois.”
It was a magnificent vision. But did she believe it? Would the traders at Fort Oswego stop selling rum and cheating the Indians? Would idealists like Malcolm have the power to pass laws against them?
“It could also mean the end of slavery—freeing every African and giving them a province of their own, like the Iroquois. It may not happen right away—but eventually Americans will realize that this continent stands for liberty. Slavery has no place in it.”
Would the people who screamed “Roast the Negar!” as Caesar went to the stake agree to free their Africans, because Malcolm Stapleton and a few other idealists urged it? Again, Clara wavered between loving this man for his vision—and the realities she had seen in New York and New Jersey. Above all she clung to the immediate reality that war meant death and desolation. For the Senecas—the northernmost tribe of the Iroquois, face to face with the French on the lakes—it meant possible destruction.
“I still think the Senecas should stay neutral.”
Clara sensed that something profound occurred in Malcolm’s soul when he heard these words. He separated from her in a new way. Marriage to Catalyntie had separated him. But that had been a barrier which desire and circumstances had repeatedly dissolved. Now she saw a man who regarded her as a mere woman—the equivalent of a child. She realized how deeply paternity was woven into Malcolm’s mind and heart. He could accept—or discard—advice from a woman with equanimity. He would never be a true Seneca, a man trained from birth to heed a woman because everything in the longhouse—rank and wealth and power—flowed from women.
“I’m going to do my best to change that opinion,” he said.
Suddenly Clara could hear in the distance the roar of the great falls—that image of oblivion. “It’s not just my opinion!” Clara said.
“I’ll change everyone’s mind before I’m through,” Malcolm said.
Back at Fort Niagara, Malcolm told Captain Pouchot that he was ready to work with him. He received an immediate down payment of two hundred livres,57 with more forthcoming if he performed well as a secret agent. Red Hawk’s parents received a shiny new musket, a half dozen yards of cloth, and a white wampum belt that was almost three feet long. They were well satisfied with Onontio’s generosity and praised the French repeatedly on their journey back up the lake to Shining Creek.
Malcolm said nothing until they reached the village. That night, around a fire, he gathered the younger warriors and told them about Captain Pouchot’s bribe. “I took the Frenchman’s gold,” he said, holding the gleaming livres in his big hand. “But now I throw it in the dirt. Those who wish to pick it up may do so. I would prefer to die before selling my honor for gold.”
He flung the money on the ground, summoned Red Hawk’s parents and pointed to the coins. “Take this from Onontio. It will further compensate you for the loss of your son, Red Hawk, whom I was proud to call my friend. But I hope it won’t buy your heart, which should still demand vengeance for his death, vengeance repeated a hundred times, as the only way to recoup such a loss.”
Red Hawk’s mother picked up the money and stared at it. “Standing Bear speaks with a powerful voice,” Little Beaver, Red Hawk’s father, said. “I am ready to raise my hatchet whenever he raises his to avenge my son.”
Watching from the door of the Bear Clan’s longhouse, Clara’s mother said to her: “I think you have brought a dangerous man into our village. A man only you can command.”
She was telling her to get Malcolm under control. But this proved impossible. Clara could not heal that separation she had sensed in the woods outside Fort Niagara. Instead, Malcolm became more and more reckless. He persuaded the village’s younger warriors to accept him as their leader. He sent one of them to New York City with a message for the governor, asking him to send a trusted subordinate to the village.
In four weeks the young warrior returned with Malcolm’s friend, Guert Cuyler. He was predictably stunned by France’s plan for a renewed war and promised to get the news to the governor, who would send it to London as soon as possible. Clara could only watch helplessly as Malcolm told Guert what he thought the Americans and the British should do. “Let’s attack them first, before these regiments get here. I’ll have the Senecas ready to fight in six months’ time—”
Malcolm accompanied Cuyler back to Oswego in a canoe. When he returned he told Clara that he had broached the possibility of a pardon for both of them for discovering France’s plans—and preparing the Senecas for war.
“A pardon? I didn’t commit a crime. Why do I need a pardon?” Clara said.
“It would be just a formality. A way of voiding the sentence.”
“It doesn’t matter to me. I have no intention of returning.”
“Never?” Malcolm said.
“I’m at peace here. I can never be at peace where I see Africans as slaves. I hope to keep the Senecas at peace with me.”
“Clara—”
“If you want me to love you, it’s time you listened to me. My mother and leaders of the other clans don’t want this war you’re bringing to us.”
“I’m not bringing it. I’m helping you survive it. Do you think the French will ever treat the Senecas with respect? The Ottawas, the Chippewas, the western tribes beyond the lakes are their people. You’ll be shoved out of these lands as soon as they win the war. They’re making promises to those tribes right now.”
He might be right. But what did it prove? Only that both sides in this white man’s war cared nothing for the Indians. Was Grey Owl right? Clara groped for a place between disagreement and hatred. “All the more reason to remain neutral.”
“No one respects a neutral. Your warriors will be called old women.”
“You’re making me hate you!” Clara cried.
Malcolm stood there, pain on his face. “I hope not,” he said.
When he tried to kiss her, she shoved him away. “I mean it, Malcolm,” she said.
He went stubbornly ahead, preparing the village for war. He traveled to other villages where young warriors, bored with peace, were thrilled by his oratory. They gleefully joined in his tactics, which called for elaborate rehearsals so they would be ready to attack the moment the war began.
This trip across the lake to Frontenac was one of these expeditions. They would not strike a blow at the French fort, but they would see how easy it would be to sweep into the harbor and burn the sloops of war and plunder the warehouses before the fort’s garrison could react.
Malcolm continued to visit Fort Niagara, where he convinced the befuddled Captain Pouchot that his elaborate rehearsals were preparing the Seneca for war on France’s side. He handed over the bribes he received to Clara’s mother, to buy whatever the village needed at Oswego. He even seduced the village shaman into predicting glorious victories. The more successful he became, the more Clara withdrew from him in her heart.
Outside the longhouse, war drums were throbbing. There would be hours of feasting and dancing and boasting before they set out. Clara could not bear the sight of Malcolm hefting his hatchet and telling how many French scalps would soon d
ecorate the walls of the Bear Clan’s longhouse. How could he ignore her this way? Didn’t he see how he was reducing her to nothing in her mother’s eyes?
She fled into the woods and tried to pray. But no voice descended from the stars. She knew why. She had sinned against Catalyntie by becoming Malcolm’s Seneca wife. She was cut off from the world of the spirit—and she had lost Malcolm too. He did not understand—or care.
She returned to the deserted village and the half-empty longhouse. Her mother’s voice found her in the dark. “I have had a terrible dream,” she said. “I saw you and Standing Bear on a small island above the great falls. The river was slowly wearing it away. I was on the shore, trying to persuade someone to paddle a canoe out to rescue you. But no one would do it, because the river was so swift. I stood and watched while the island slowly disappeared and you were both swept over the falls. Below, in the rapids, only he emerged and clung to a rock. You had vanished forever.”
“I think that’s what is happening to me. I’m vanishing little by little. He won’t listen to me. I’m useless to you and to myself. I can’t bear children. What can I give the Senecas to make me worthy of my heritage?”
“I don’t know,” her mother said. “You can only wait for what the Manitou reveals. I still believe he has a special purpose for you. Your grandmother believed it from the day she saw you. She dreamed of you the first night you came here as a yellow sunflower, blooming in the snow.”
Clara slipped into a shallow restless sleep. When she awoke, summer sunshine was pouring through the door of the longhouse. There was a great racket outside, voices shouting, dogs barking. Had the warriors returned from Frontenac? They were not expected back for another day. Into the longhouse darted the woman, Big Claws. She was still as lean and nasty as she had been as a girl.
“Nothing-But-Flowers,” she said. “Wake up. You have a visitor. Your friend She-Is-Alert has journeyed all the way from New York. She has her two sons with her.”
Clara flung aside her deerskin robe and rushed into the street. There I stood, escorted by Guert Cuyler and Peter Van Ness. In my arms was Paul, who kicked and squirmed until I lowered him to the ground. His brother Hugh seized him by the arm and stopped him from careening into a nearby cooking fire.
“Hello, Clara,” I said.
She kissed me and Hugh and little Paul. She seemed enormously pleased to see us. There was not a scintilla of a sign of regret or embarrassment. On our long journey up the Mohawk to Oswego and down Lake Ontario to the village, I had wrestled with my Moon Woman self. A hundred times I had vowed I did not care if Clara and Malcolm had become lovers again. I wanted to preserve that moment on the night of Clara’s rescue when Malcolm and I had discovered love in our souls, thanks to our mutual love for Clara. I vowed I would not desecrate that moment with envy and recrimination.
“I’ve come with wonderful news,” I said. “The governor of New York has pardoned you and Malcolm. You can come home.”
Clara’s heart soared. The Manitou had answered her prayers at last. Malcolm could not turn his back on his wife and sons. He would return home with them—and she and her mother would regain control of the Senecas and cool their war fever.
“We have other news that’s not so wonderful,” Guert Cuyler said. “The war with the French has begun.”
“Where—how?” Clara asked, horrified.
“In Virginia. A colonel of their militia named George Washington and about four hundred men were on their way to the forks of the Ohio to stop the French from building a fort there. They were attacked in the woods by a party of French and Indians. There were a good many killed and wounded on both sides.”
Her Seneca mother’s dream leaped like a panther in Clara’s mind. Tears poured down her cheeks. “Is there no place on earth where I can find peace?” she cried.
THREE
“IT WAS A ROUT. AN UTTER total rout,” Malcolm said, his voice a croak, his eyes blank with exhaustion.
He was telling me about the latest fiasco in the war with France—the brainless frontal assault on the French fort at the carrying place between Lake George and the Lake of the Sacrament.58 Almost two thousand British soldiers had been killed or wounded. The British general, James Abercromby, had never come within five miles of the battlefield. Malcolm and his American rangers had been attacked in the woods by hundreds of Canadian Indians, inflamed by the French victory. Scarcely one man in five had survived.
He was back at Great Rock Farm from another campaign in this pitiless struggle with France. Year after year, the war had been a series of sickening defeats, beginning with the slaughter of two British regiments in western Pennsylvania and a thousand Americans who marched with them, confident of victory. In the north, along the border with Canada, it had been more of the same. Oswego fell with a crash that shook New York to its foundations. The French ruled the lakes and rivers to within a few miles of Albany.
In the valleys of the Mohawk and the Susquehanna and even in the northern hills of New Jersey, Indian war parties from Frontenac and Fort Niagara swept down to burn and loot and scalp. Another holocaust sprang from the fort at the forks of the Ohio, with Shawnees and other western tribes spreading torture and destruction across western Pennsylvania and Maryland and Virginia. People died within sixty miles of Philadelphia.
The ineptitude, the corruption, of the British government under the dithering heir of Walpole, the Duke of Newcastle, was unbelievable.59 Their favoritism-ridden army, led by generals and colonels without talent or brains, was soon a continental-length joke. Malcolm Stapleton was one of many Americans who decided the colonies would have to rescue themselves. At a congress in Albany, he supported men such as Benjamin Franklin of Pennsylvania and Stephen Hopkins of Rhode Island who argued urgently for an American confederation—in vain. The British opposed it because it smacked of independence and there was too much jealousy and suspicion between the thirteen very different, often quarreling provinces. They could not even agree on whom to deputize to negotiate a new alliance with the Iroquois.
As a result, the sachems of the Six Nations went home from Albany disgusted and Malcolm’s dream of a Seneca spearhead, backed by the full weight of the Iroquois confederation, splintered into disillusion and demoralization. When Oswego fell, many Iroquois decided the French were sure winners and abandoned all pretense of neutrality. The French soon had emissaries in the Seneca villages along Lake Ontario, offering gifts of guns and gunpowder and luring the young warriors south with promises of plunder against the inept, treacherous English.
The few villages that followed Malcolm’s leadership and tried to remain neutral while waiting for renewed negotiations for an alliance with England were threatened with destruction. Last year, to prove their grim intentions, the French and their Canadian Indian allies attacked Shining Creek with an overwhelming force. Malcolm and his comparative handful of warriors were compelled to flee into the woods with the women and children, leaving behind many old and infirm people. The attackers torched the village and laid waste the cornfields and fruit orchards, reducing the survivors to pathetic refugees, begging for food and shelter among the Mohawks, the Oneidas, and other tribes of the Six Nations. Only the Mohawks, whose country was closest to the Americans and who remained sympathetic to King George’s subjects, showed them some mercy.
Each year, Malcolm spent all but the worst months of the winter in the northern woods, either fighting or planning the war. He helped build and garrison a series of forts along New Jersey’s northern border. He conferred repeatedly with the governors of New Jersey and New York on how to raise men, how to coordinate some sort of defense with New England’s contentious Yankees. Our sons were growing to manhood with a stranger for a father, a visitor who appeared and vanished like a creature in a myth, who was better known in the newspapers than he was in the flesh.
I was not much better as a parent. The flood of British troops into New York produced a fantastic prosperity among the farmers of New Jersey, who sold their wheat and
rye and sheep and bullocks at vastly inflated prices. This meant the vrouws of Bergen County had unprecedented amounts of money to spend at the new Universal Store in Hackensack. I had long since paid off my loan from Arent Schuyler and my debt to Robert Foster Nicolls—and sent Jamey Stapleton his half share of the value of Great Rock Farm. I used the rest of my surplus cash to outfit a privateer. Guert Cuyler had taken command of it and was soon on his way to piling up prize money from a string of spectacular captures. I used my share of the profits to open a forge in New Jersey’s northern hills, which was soon producing a ton of iron a month. The stuff sold for fantastic profits in London, where the war-driven demand for metal was voracious.
But these business triumphs seemed hollow, the cash overflowing my account books meant little, while the war raged on. More and more, I began to think it was Clara for whom Malcolm was fighting, not his wife and children, comfortable and safe in New Jersey. I began to suspect he secretly hoped for death in some forest ambuscade to prove to himself and Clara that it was she and she alone that he loved. Again and again I reproached myself for this egotistical view of a war between two great empires. I said nothing to Malcolm. Each year, I struggled to welcome him as a wife, to be grateful for the few months he spent with me.
This year, Malcolm had barely recovered from his exhaustion and melancholy when he announced he was planning to leave for the frontier once more. I lost what little self-control I had left. “I can’t stand the thought of you going back to Clara,” I sobbed. “I’ve tried to accept it but—”
“How many times do I have to tell you—she won’t let me touch her,” Malcolm said.
“Whether that’s true or not, you go back there for her sake. You want to die for her sake—instead of living for my sake—for your sons’ sakes.”
“I’m going back to help Clara’s people. Your people. They’re refugees. Maybe with some help from the British we can get them back to Shining Creek.”
We were in our bedroom at Great Rock Farm—the room in which we performed the ritual of married love with a dogged persistence that was a tribute to nothing but my need for him and his guilty wish to love me in spite of Clara. I knew he had become Clara’s lover again. But how could I reproach him when I had deceived him about Philip Hooft? I even recognized the tormented love for me that prompted Malcolm to lacerate his conscience and lie about Clara so stubbornly.
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