Savage Liberty

by Eliot Pattison

  “Leviathan!” the young Nipmuc whooped.

  Everyone who lived near Champlain, European and Indian alike, had some tale of the great creature that lurked in the lake. “Water horse!” one of the Scots called out, evoking the myths from the lochs of Scotland. Champlain himself had reported seeing a water beast with the head of a horse more than a century and a half earlier.

  “Tatoskok!” one of the Iroquois called with awe in his voice. The tribesmen had their own name for the legendary creature.

  Woolford, his face alive with delight, stepped from the rail to the helm and extended his hand. Duncan gave him the tiller and darted to the rail. His heart leapt as he saw the Osprey’s escort. Its sleek gray body was as thick as a barrel and at least fifteen feet long, with a sharply tapering head that held two huge black, inquisitive eyes.

  “Tatoskok!” Corporal Longtree repeated, but with reverence, not fear. Noah touched his totem bag and began urgently whispering in a native tongue as he watched the animal with awed joy. The tales of the mysterious creature varied from campfire to campfire. Many called it the king of the water world, others the guardian of drowned souls, still others the storm-demon that conjured Champlain’s violent squalls. But almost always there was an ancient, timeless element to the tales, a connection to the primordial powers that occupied the land before man.

  Duncan sensed an unexpected resonance rising within him. There had been water beasts that shadowed boats of the Hebrides, and sometimes a McCallum would affirm an ancient tie with them. He grabbed a coil of line and tossed it to Ishmael. “Tie it to the starboard sternpost and let it trail behind,” he instructed the young Nipmuc.

  He had seen his grandfather embrace such creatures, renewing the ancient ties, and now from some distant chamber in his mind he heard the old man’s ebullient laugh. He reached for the buttons of his waistcoat.

  “Duncan! No!” Munro shouted as he saw that Duncan had stripped to the waist. All the Iroquois stared wide-eyed. Conawago’s face lit with excitement again. Noah’s jaw dropped, and he clutched the totem bag that hung from his neck with both hands.

  “Keep her steady,” Duncan shouted at Munro, then leapt onto the creature’s back.

  Taming the berserker, is what some of the Skye fishermen had called his grandfather’s wild bonding with the beasts of the Hebrides. What most didn’t know was that the massive creatures he rode were docile whales or basking sharks, and Duncan always had the impression that they enjoyed having the old man scratch their backs.

  There were no whales or sharks in this freshwater sea, and Duncan knew instinctively that this creature had no interest in digesting humans. It seemed to take no notice of him as he settled onto its long, protruding spine, but then, as he wrapped his legs around the thick body, it shook its back slightly, as if to make sure Duncan had his seat. Suddenly, to terrified shouts from the deck, it dove. They were under for no more than twenty seconds, and the great fish, which he suspected to be an aged sturgeon, surfaced again alongside the sloop.

  Duncan realized he was shouting in Gaelic, the battle cries of the Highlands his grandfather shouted when taming his own berserker. The great fish made a leap that brought Duncan’s head almost to the height of the deck, and it dove again, much deeper this time. He released his legs, and the creature disappeared into the murk below. He surfaced, treaded water for a moment, then caught the trailing line. As the crew pulled him in, he recalled one of the dreams Sarah had worried about. I see a great, long beast lying in wait for you, she had said.

  The Scots cheered as he came on board. The Iroquois gazed at him in astonishment. Rufus, to Duncan’s momentary discomfort, grabbed his head and kissed both cheeks. Noah approached him and bent, lifting Duncan’s dripping totem pouch and solemnly touching it to his forehead.

  “Tatoskok is our protector,” Noah declared, his voice thick with emotion. “He has not been seen for many years, and we feared he had abandoned us. A brother of Tatoskok is a brother of mine.”

  Duncan looked to Conawago but found only surprise on his friend’s countenance. “Your protector?” he asked Noah.

  As if in answer, Noah stripped off his black waistcoat, revealing a torso covered in tattoos. He made a gesture that took in the vast country to the northeast. “Of my people. You are taking me back to them, brother. My blood is Abenaki.”

  IN THE CRAMPED STERN CABIN, Duncan and Woolford examined a chart of the northern half of the lake. They had made good time, covering at least fifty miles, but the wind had slackened and the Osprey’s regular crew, fearful of uncharted rocks in the night, had recommended that they put into one of the bays until dawn.

  “If Beck comes,” Duncan said, “he will bring the brig and won’t hesitate to shoot us out of the water.”

  “Nonsense. He’s back in Albany licking his wounds, probably telling the general to send for the superintendent to complain about me,” Woolford said. “But Sir William loathes the general. He’ll defend me just to spite him.”

  “We’ll reduce sail and keep a sharp lookout, with men holding poles to fend off rocks. There should be enough of a moon to spy them.”

  Woolford shrugged. “You’re the captain of this boat,” he said. “I’m the one charged with addressing the little fires in the frontier before they become conflagrations.”

  Duncan studied his friend. “You didn’t want to review the charts—you wanted me in the only private space on the sloop. You wanted to talk about New France.”

  “I wanted to talk about the other side of that particular coin. Major Rogers.”

  “I am apparently his coconspirator.”

  “Beck named you because he doesn’t know enough to find any real ones.”

  “You mean the French colonials,” Duncan suggested.

  “Not only them. It took years for Rogers to get what he thought he deserved for his service in the war. He performed miracles, and not just at St. Francis. Without him there would have been no effective ranger force. And without the rangers the war could easily have gone the other way. London slighted him, without question. They have disdain for heroes with no pedigree, and by the end of the war he had no friends left in positions of command. He is bitterly resentful of London.”

  “Resentful of the king.”

  Woolford winced, as if he had bitten something sour. “Years ago, Rogers and I spent a night in a tavern when he returned from his amazing voyage to Detroit.” Seeking to avoid unnecessary bloodshed after the surrender of the French at Montreal, Rogers had raced to the fort there with the news, repelling ambush and reaching the fort in half the time others would have taken. “He saved dozens, probably hundreds of lives by doing so. All the colonials knew that, but when he returned, his colonel just said well done and with the next breath chastised him for erecting his tents in a crooked line. Rogers raised his glass for a toast. ‘Bugger the king and long live this great land,’ he said.”

  “You returned the toast?”

  Woolford winced again. “I repeated ‘this great land’ and drank.”

  “He had spies in New France during the war—” Duncan stated.

  “Doubtlessly. At least some would call them spies. He would call them old friends with common interests, from his early days in the frontier. You’ve seen his Rules of Rangering,” Woolford said, referring to the short pamphlet that had become a second Bible for the rangers. “One of the most fundamental is to know the lay of the land before you attack. Know the land, know your enemy, know your enemy’s other enemies. ‘Put on your enemy’s skin,’ he used to tell us.”

  “Many of those in Quebec were trained by Jesuits, colonials and tribesmen alike.”

  Woolford cocked his head. “I’m glad you appreciate the point.”

  “They hate the French king now.”

  “Hate isn’t a strong enough word. He tried to banish them from their God. ‘An instrument of Satan’ is what some of the priests call King Louis. The famous Father Roubaud, warrior priest and once our great enemy, now pays regular calls to Sir
William, reporting on French activity in the west. There’s no sign of Rogers conspiring with the French there.”

  “Which leaves the east,” Duncan said. “There are still many from Quebec who are voyageurs in the fur trade, who would make regular calls in the northwest, where Rogers commands. The makings of a secret network.”

  “You sound as if you think he should hang,” Woolford observed.

  Duncan looked down at his hands folded on the little table. “No. I would have raised my glass to his toast. It was the British king who butchered my clan.”

  “That was a different George.”

  “George the Second, George the Third. They both washed their hands in blood of the innocent.”

  “Steady,” Woolford cautioned, lowering his voice. “These walls may not be as thick as you think. And I know you better than to think it is vengeance that is driving you north.”

  “Rogers is a shrewd warrior,” Duncan observed. “He would not have pursued a new country populated by free Frenchmen unless he knew the resources were in place. Gold louis are beginning to appear among the colonists.”

  The deputy superintendent looked out the stern window. He seemed to be deciding what to share with Duncan. “The Joan of Arc,” he said. “That was the name of a little sloop favored by the French general for special missions along the St. Lawrence. Near the end of the war, harvests had failed for two straight years in Quebec. The French soldiers were mostly militia. They began deserting in large numbers, going home to hunt and fish to feed their starving families. The governor of New France decided to divert the funds sent to pay the regular troops and buy supplies—to use it instead to pay the militia. At least twenty thousand pounds sterling, maybe more. While Quebec was falling, we think the Joan was sent with the chest of coins to one of the forts on the south side of the St. Lawrence, but she was never seen again. There was talk about monks in black robes carrying a chest in the middle of the night, but only rumors.”

  Duncan weighed his words. “That kind of money could fund a new government. French farmers have been moving down into the Grants. But is it a free New France they seek? Or a new royal colony ruled from Paris?”

  “We keep asking ourselves that very question. There are still ships that sail from Quebec to Normandy. If word arrived in Paris of the missing treasure, some would see it as an opportunity for the king to reverse his fortunes in America. Maybe Noah’s right.”

  “I’m sorry?” Duncan asked.

  “We were speaking of St. Francis. He said the Abenaki war chiefs always did the French king’s dirty work. Now the Abenaki are gathering. During the war, one named Mog had a whole pole of ranger scalps at St. Francis,” Woolford said in a tight voice, “right outside the Jesuit church. He had a special ritual during the war, just for rangers. We rescued a prisoner who witnessed it. He would cut their hearts out and eat them, usually while they were still beating.”

  “He hasn’t stopped,” Duncan said, his voice hollow. “He cut two more out in Massachusetts.” He explained their experience with Chief Mog in Boston and on the western road.

  “God help us,” Woolford muttered. “We are going into the jaws of the beast.”

  THE OSPREY GLIDED OVER THE still waters, chasing the reflection of the gibbous moon in her northward passage. One of the Scottish crew kept watch at the prow, another stayed close with a long pole. Several of the company lay on the deck, some snoring, some watching the stars.

  Munro stood beside Duncan at the helm. “Gonna storm,” the old Scot said.

  “The sky is clear,” Duncan pointed out.

  Munro just shook his head. “Gonna storm, my bones know it,” he replied, then yawned and curled up with a blanket by the stern rail.

  Much later Duncan became aware of Sinclair, the first mate, standing nearby awkwardly, holding a soiled sack in his hand. “The owner died in the war, sir. We carry them with us, just in case. Last time we found someone was nearly two years ago.”

  “I don’t follow, Mr. Sinclair—”

  “Mr. Munro, he’s the one who told us. He said you did it most nights when you sailed to Bermuda. Even just a few minutes would mean the world to us.”

  Duncan gazed at the lumpy bag and felt a spark flash in his Highland soul. “Can you handle the helm, Mr. Sinclair?”

  The sailor smiled, put a knuckle to his forehead, and extended the sack as he grabbed the helm.

  “Keep Polaris true over the bow,” Duncan advised, then knelt by a lantern and extracted the contents of the dusty muslin sack.

  It had been a fine instrument once, and though it had seen much abuse, its cherrywood chanter and drones still retained a polished sheen, and the leather bag, though much scoffed and patched, seemed intact. He put the reed in his mouth to moisten it, then reinserted it in the chanter before he tested the blowpipe. It leaked slightly, but Duncan knew it would likely seal itself after a few minutes.

  He filled the bag and then, his heart thumping, adjusted the drones. The high-pitched notes echoed out over the lake. One of the Scottish crew sat up, a huge grin on his face. A Mohawk shot up from his sleep, a hand on his ax. Others of the exhausted men stirred at the sound, then rolled over for more slumber. Duncan piped a romantic ballad at first, getting the balance of the chanter as he faced the stern. When he turned, every man on the desk was up and watching him. He offered a jaunty song of the Highland drovers, his heart pushing up into his throat as he remembered his sisters singing to it. Men began calling out suggested tunes, many of them odes to Bonnie Prince Charlie or ballads of the lost Jacobite cause. Sadie, on Hayes’s shoulder, swayed to the music. Between songs, loons responded from across the dark water with long, questioning wails, sometimes answered by a single bark from Molly.

  The Iroquois and Noah watched with intense expressions, and as he began a series of ceol mor, ancient ceremonial music, they kept searching the skies. They thought he was calling down spirits. An old Scot sobbed, and another patted the man’s back, comforting him in Gaelic. Was he weeping just from the memories, Duncan wondered, or because he knew the Highland world was gone?

  “Killiecrankie,” someone called out, and later “Maggie Lauder,” then “The Hills of Glenorchy.” Duncan’s fingers knew the tunes, and as they worked, his mind drifted to scenes of his youth, to the great festivals of his clan when his grandfather and uncles competed with pipes and fiddles, engaging in playful musical duels. His sisters danced, and sometimes all would stop as his mother entranced them with songs of selkies and the king of the sea. Once, a flaming stick had arced through the night sky, landing in their circle, and an uncle had run out of the darkness gasping, insisting to Duncan and the other children that he had been chased by the fairies who had gathered to listen.

  The Osprey coasted along, followed by the echoes of the pipes, until the lookout shouted and everyone turned to see black clouds close ahead, stabbing the lake with daggers of fire.

  “THERE!” SINCLAIR SHOUTED, “I SWEAR she’s there, port bow five points!” He pointed through the frenzy of water so thick it was hard to tell where the lake began and the storm-driven downpour ended.

  Duncan desperately fought the tiller as the ship scudded down the lake with only her top square sail set. His heart sank as he finally saw what Sinclair had been shouting about for the past ten minutes. Between the drifting torrents, he glimpsed the brig from Ticonderoga.

  The Osprey’s prow lunged into the lake, and one of the Mohawks, desperately clinging to the main mast, began a prayer toward the heavens. The ship lurched again and the man was thrown off his feet. He did not resist when Woolford grabbed him, half dragged him to the hatch, and pointed below deck, where the others huddled, including Will, who had dragged the seabear Molly from the deck.

  They had had no choice but to turn before the heavy wind, backtracking into the widest part of the lake, where they had the best chance of avoiding the rocky shores.

  Woolford struggled to Duncan’s side, holding one of the manropes they had rigged, and peered into the pe
lting rain. “She may just be taking Hazlitt up north for his Montreal trial,” Woolford suggested, shouting to be heard.

  “It’s Beck!” Duncan shouted as the rain slashed his face. “Only he would be fool enough to take her out in this.”

  “But we’re faster,” Woolford pointed out.

  “Not necessarily our advantage now,” Duncan said. “She’s heavier, more stable, and we are speeding right to where he wants us.” Beck was desperate to learn the location of a certain cross. Duncan was desperate to find the men who sank the Arcturus. Here, on Lake Champlain, their paths were violently converging. “We have to wear round, to come about and start tacking north again, but she will pass close by while we do, and then it will be a race on short sail, beating into the wind.”

  “Unless she blasts us,” Sinclair suggested.

  “We have guns as well,” Woolford said.

  The Scottish seaman looked much taken aback. As the wind ebbed for an instant, he chastised Woolford. “We would ne’r fire on a king’s ship, sir.”

  Woolford took a long moment to answer. “No, of course not. But Beck’s hell-bent on stopping us.” He turned to Duncan, who had never seen his friend so worried. “So it is up to you and your storm-demon friend.” As if the spirit in the lake had heard, the sloop pitched violently, knocking Woolford into Sinclair’s arms.

  “You saw the beast as sure as we did, sir,” Sinclair reminded Woolford as he untangled himself from the deputy superintendent and carefully placed Wool-ford’s hands on the manrope. “Mustn’t make light of him. He summoned Mr. Duncan for a reason.”

  BUT THE STORM-DEMON’S LAKE WAS not the broad ocean, only a narrow chute of furious whitecaps. There was nothing to do but continue beating down and wearing before the rapidly approaching narrows. They had lost most of the progress made during the day.

  Suddenly the brig was before them, adjusting course and coming directly at the Osprey.