Savage Liberty

by Eliot Pattison

  Solomon slowly stepped forward to embrace the woman, but she raised a hand to stop him. “I have new sons, Solomon. Good boys.”

  “Abenaki boys,” Hayes protested.

  “Tetwanay’s boys.”

  The tinker’s heart had risen at her appearance in the cell, but now, as Duncan watched, it seemed to shatter, to break into a hundred pieces that could never be joined again. It would have been easier if Hayes had found Rebecca’s body or her grave. But now he had found his beloved Rebecca and she was no longer the woman he sought, no longer his. He had struggled through storm, Indian attack, blizzards, derision, and terrible wounds only to find another man’s wife.

  “Is he . . .” Hayes’s words were choked. He scrubbed tears from his gaunt cheek. “Is he a good man?”

  “He is a good father. He keeps us fed. Tomorrow we are leaving for the west, fifty of us, up the St. Lawrence to the sea of the Hurons, where they say no white—” She stopped. “To a land that knows no strife, they say. I had to see you once, to make you understand. You must stop your searching. You must forget me, Solomon.”

  Hayes still loved her. Duncan could see it in his tormented eyes.

  She rose, unable to raise her face to him, then reached around her neck. She pulled away a leather strap with a shiny medallion on it. To his great surprise, she turned and gave it to Duncan, then stepped to the door.

  Hayes darted forward. He pressed his hand to the wound on his scalp and with a bloody finger drew a sign on the wall by the door, a Hebrew sign. Tetwanay paused, then wetted her own finger in the blood of the letter and drew another sign beside it. Then she wiped away both signs. “The night is not over,” she said to Conawago, who stood closest to her; then she rapped for the door to be opened and was gone.

  HAYES STARED IN ANGUISH AT the smear of blood on the wall for several minutes until Munro led him away. He was but a hollow scarecrow of a man. There was no life left in his eyes. His soul had been drained. His body simply complied with Munro, walking stiffly, then dropping to the floor again in his corner.

  “You weren’t surprised,” Duncan whispered to Conawago.

  “No. He should have been told this was possible. But none of us who expected this had the courage to explain. Young women are not captured to be killed. And if they are strong and fertile, they won’t be kept as slaves for long.” He gazed wordlessly at Hayes and sighed. “The greatest enemy of the tribes isn’t the Europeans as such, it is the arithmetic. For two generations and more, they have failed to breed enough babies to replace those who die. With enough study, I suppose someone could calculate how long each tribe has until extinction.”

  The words tied a cold knot in Duncan’s belly. He had grown to think of the tribes much as he thought of the Highland clans, many of which faced the same devastating math. They were all in the ending times.

  “Did you recognize the symbols they drew?” he asked his old friend.

  “Solomon drew achat, the number one, which also means unity or one hope. She drew shalosh, three, which can also mean resurrection or a new life.”

  The smear of blood was painful to look at. They had just witnessed another ending.

  Conawago had his hand out, and Duncan realized that he wanted to see the medallion Tetwaney had given him. The old Nipmuc took it to the nearest window. “She wanted you to have this,” he said. “You, not Hayes.”

  “A remembrance. She knew he was in no condition to receive it. I will give it to him later.”

  “No. Not a remembrance. A clue. It’s a coin, Duncan.” He held the gold piece up in the dying light. A demi-louis d’or, the French call it. A half louis. She’s telling us about that chest, about why the old woman says the king paid for the new church.”

  Duncan stepped to the drawing of the raid and pointed to the chest being carried by those escaping into the woods. “The French treasure was here.”

  Conawago nodded. “St. Francis was a bastion, a distant place of safety. I suspect that somehow they kept it concealed after the war. From the French king. From the British king. They must have taken some of it to rebuild the church, and then it was probably hidden far away, where none are likely to find it.”

  Duncan took the coin back, hefting it in his palm. Twenty thousand pounds had gone missing. It was a king’s ransom. “Rogers knew and never said a word,” he stated.

  “And LaBrosse, who sent the letters with the coins. The French must have assumed that the British took it, were probably told that Rogers took it in the raid. But it had been concealed here, in this remote sanctuary in the wilderness. LaBrosse lied in his statement to Beck.”

  Duncan held the coin up in the fading light. “Is this why men have been dying? A chest of metal?”

  “No,” his old friend replied. “Men have been dying over dreams and strategies for empire. The gold adds power to their dreams and strategies.” He nodded to the coin. “To Rogers and his friends, this is wagons and oxen and seed for new farms along Lake Champlain.”

  “Saguenay,” Duncan said.

  “Yes, for Saguenay. But for spies from Paris this is the means to a new campaign in America by King Louis.”

  “Or a private estate for Horatio Beck, if he finds it first. It was why he was so desperate to kill us all on the lake that night. At Ticonderoga he realized we too knew about the treasure, and he couldn’t have us interfering, couldn’t have us reach it first. By now he knows it is in Montreal, where the French spies have gone. It’s not about treason anymore. He could settle his debt, buy a title even.”

  Conawago turned his head toward Ishmael, then Munro, whom the young Nipmuc was staring at. Munro was standing with his back to the window, where he had been watching with a cool, determined glint in his eyes, his hands folded before him. Ishmael, then Conawago, Duncan, and Brandt did likewise.

  “Michael, Archangel, defend us in battle,” the old Scot intoned. “Be our protector against this wickedness and strengthen our arms. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Duncan repeated. It was the Blessing of the Red Sword, an ancient blessing of Scottish soldiers about to enter battle.

  “Amen,” the others echoed.

  The door opened abruptly, and Father Tremblay, the young priest, appeared with a bright candle lantern. “There is to be an exodus,” he announced. “At least that’s what I call it. A migration of a dozen families to the safety of the Huron lands.”

  “So Tetwanay told us,” Conawago acknowledged.

  “They need a man who knows the western lands. A guide, as it were. If one of you has had the experience—have indeed any of you made that journey?”

  Conawago, Ishmael, and Munro exchanged glances. “Three of us,” Conawago confirmed. Duncan stepped away. This was no longer his business.

  “Splendid! Then one of you is saved! Perhaps I could convince them to take two!” Tremblay hesitated, his round face pinched in confusion over the lack of interest in his words. “You do know what those stakes out there are for?” he asked. “St. Francis is a complicated place, my friends,” he said. “Many are Christians, but the others remain fiercely otherwise. The Christians are reluctant to oppose them for fear of being accused, as they often are, of being unfaithful to the tribe. I am told that prisoners burned frequently during the old wars. Mog is telling his followers that the flames are hungry and need to be fed, that the old spirits need to be shown that the tribe still believes in them.”

  Conawago took two steps back to stand at Duncan’s side.

  Tremblay reached out and put a hand on Ishmael’s arm. “They will tie you to the post and light the fire! I beg you, allow me to help you! You don’t understand!”

  Ishmael shook off his hand and stepped to Duncan’s other side.

  Tremblay put both hands on Munro’s arm, pulling him. “Please!” he beseeched. “You need not be a martyr!”

  Munro had to pry off each of Tremblay’s fingers. The old Scot had been polishing the brass emblem of the 42nd Regiment he had been wearing on his waistcoat. “I made a vow in Boston t
o stand by McCallum,” he explained. “If a man can’t die for his word, his life ain’t worth a groat.” He retreated to stand beside Conawago.

  “Do you think this is playacting? Mog will do it! He is the devil in buckskin! I beg you! He will laugh as you scream your life’s breath away!” Tremblay cried. “Has your fear deprived you of your wits?”

  “I have a question,” Conawago interjected.

  Tremblay brightened, misunderstanding.

  “Where are Comtois and his friend Philippe?”

  Tremblay jerked backward as if physically struck. “Not—not here,” he said. The priest looked at the door as if thinking of bolting.

  “But they did come on urgent business,” Conawago pressed, “and left as urgently. Why?”

  “I am just a simple priest. How would I know such things? Please listen to me. Not all have to die!”

  The old Nipmuc fixed Tremblay with an intense stare. “Qui est rese vester?” he asked.

  Tremblay hesitated, obviously not understanding.

  Conawago switched from Latin to French. “Louis va-t’il vraiment sauver les jésuites?”

  The priest brightened. “Oui! Oui! Il nous a fait la promesse!”

  Conawago nodded good-naturedly. “Et les amis français de Mog. Sont ils allons a Montréal pour l’or? Pourquois Montréal?”

  The color slowly faded from Tremblay’s face as he recognized the trap Conawago had laid for him. He backed away and rapped on the door, then turned before leaving. “Pour assister à la naissance du nouvel âge!” he snapped triumphantly.

  Munro and Ishmael looked expectantly at the old Nipmuc. “I asked if the French spies went to Montreal for the gold, and why Montreal,” Conawago explained. “And he said they are going to Montreal to witness the birth of the new age.”

  “So you suspect he is not a true Jesuit?” Duncan asked as the lock rattled shut on the door.

  “He would never be given the robe by the order without knowledge of Latin. He does not speak the tongue of the Vatican.”

  They gazed at the cell door, then turned at the sound of axes chopping more fuel for the posts. “You were watching Noah earlier,” Ishmael said to his uncle. “Did he signal something?”

  “All he did,” Conawago said with a grin, “was hold a cross upside down.”

  “Tremblay is the link,” Duncan suggested. “He came from France on Comtois’s original business but caught a fresh scent of the gold and was sent here.”

  “But why?” Munro asked. “Why did Tremblay try to save one or two of us?”

  Duncan shrugged. “Perhaps he has enough of the Jesuit in him to feel guilty. Or perhaps he wants to be sure of who dies. If he could take two of you as guides for the west, that would narrow the choices considerably. They will want Hayes, and me. And an old ranger from the raid,” he said, nodding to Brandt.

  Brandt puffed up at the announcement and slipped a hand inside his shirt, extracting a short blade. He had kept the knife the old woman had brought with their meal. “T’ain’t the first time I fought ’Nakis,” he declared with a dangerous, almost maniacal gleam. “Let that damned Mog lay his hand on my hair, and I’ll—” The ranger halted to listen to a curious scratching coming from somewhere in the room.

  “The cabinet?” Munro declared. Brandt aimed his knife toward the noise as Munro eased open the door of the old armoire. A small, furry shape darted out and leapt onto Hayes shoulder with a chattering cry of greeting. The tinker, still numb from Rebecca’s visit, took a moment to notice the effort of the monkey to put her arms around his neck; then, with a sob, he returned her embrace.

  A moment later the old cassocks inside the armoire shook, and a small, familiar head appeared between them. “Do I need an invitation to this party?” Will Sterret asked with an impish smile.

  Their shocked silence lasted only an instant. Munro reached in and pulled the boy out. As Duncan brought the candle lantern closer, Father LeBrosse’s head appeared at the back of the armoire. “No time to explain!” the priest exclaimed. “Follow me!” he instructed, then disappeared into the shadows at the back of the cabinet.

  “It’s a secret passage!” Will explained unnecessarily.

  Duncan had not forgotten how a score of inhabitants had gone into the old church and escaped its fire. It could only have been through a tunnel, he had concluded, but he also assumed the tunnel would have collapsed in the fire. He saw now that the passage had been built into the thick stone wall of the old building, this entry cut into the back of the battered armoire after it had been fastened to the wall.

  The slender hole opened into a narrow landing that led down a flight of steep stone steps. The musty air of the hall at the bottom of the stairs was cut by the acrid scent of the incense used in Catholic censures, a smell that increased as they stepped into a surprisingly large chamber that had been shaped by setting heavy timbers over the tops of buried granite ledges. The irregularly shaped room, easily twenty feet wide and twice that long, held several large tables, a few narrow cots, and a rack of casks labeled BRANDY, ARMAGNAC, and SHERRY. The Jesuit order had, after all, been founded in Paris and was not inclined to deny its members at least some of the simpler pleasures of life. A timbered wall was covered with dusty maps inscribed with notes explaining movements of troops and supplies. It had been a room used for planning military campaigns during the war.

  On a table lay another, more recent map showing the Champlain region, including recent marks made at Chevelure, across from Crown Point, where new French farmers had been dispatched like advance troops. Along the margins of the map were tallies, not of soldiers but of horses, cows, oxen, barrels, wagons, and tools, with a separate column reserved for muskets and gunpowder. At the bottom were calculations of sums of money.

  Duncan picked up a paper and held it to the nearest candle. “This is purple ink,” he observed.

  “Yes, yes!” LaBrosse said. “During the war when there were shortages, we got into the habit of making our ink from berries. But there’s no time! Hurry!” LaBrosse chided as Duncan lingered at another, larger-scale map that included the far west. Someone had circled a cross at the intersection of the two inland seas called Huron and Michigan. Michilimackinac, it said. It was Rogers’s outpost.

  “You correspond with Rogers,” Duncan stated.

  “Of course! Now—” LaBrosse hesitated as Duncan pulled back a curtain that walled off a small alcove between the rock walls. A heavily bandaged gray-haired tribesman lay on a cot, sleeping. Duncan recalled the old woman saying that the French had almost killed a lay brother.

  “Comtois and Philippe did this,” Duncan said as LaBrosse pulled on his arm. “To learn where the gold is. The bruises on your face are recent. They beat you.”

  “Yes, yes. But they gave up when they realized we do not know. All I know is that I surrendered it to men from Montreal, nothing else. The major insisted on secrets, on blind layers between secrets, as he would say.” LaBrosse pulled his cassock up over his ankles. “Now, run!”

  The priest led the fugitives, with Ishmael bracing the unsteady Hayes, out of the chamber and into an earthen-walled passage that slanted upward. They passed through a narrow maze of tentacle-like roots to reach a natural cavern with a moist earthen floor. Moments later they emerged in a moonlit clearing. Through the trees they could see the white steeple of the church below. The old Abenaki woman waited for them beside their packs, brought from their campsite. LaBrosse halted, gasping for breath as he scanned the shadows. “Marie,” he said to the woman, “where are their weapons? I had stacked them by—”

  His words died as Mog emerged from the shadows. The war chief slammed the side of his war ax into the priest’s head, and LaBrosse collapsed, unconscious. With a click of Mog’s tongue, half a dozen warriors appeared, all cocking muskets as they trained them on the fugitives.

  18

  CHAIRS, TABLES, AND BED PLATFORMS lit the town as Duncan and his companions were shoved onto the square. A huge bonfire was being fed by furniture. Warr
iors with painted faces were gutting the houses of those abandoning St. Francis for the west the next day. Duncan realized that this was Mog’s way of telling them good riddance.

  The captives were arranged in a row before the death posts, positioned with kicks and then, with sharp blows to the backs of their legs, forced to kneel. A rivulet of blood ran down Duncan’s forehead where a club had hit him. A much-worse cut had been inflicted on Munro’s arm, which had deflected the spike of a war ax that had been aimed at Duncan’s shoulder.

  Mog had all night to kill his prisoners. First he would perform for his audience, the crowd of more than a hundred Abenaki who had gathered, backs to the riverfront, by the bonfire. Some, probably those who were migrating west, looked at him defiantly as their belongings were flung into the flames. A few others stared not at Mog, but at LaBrosse, now gagged and tied to a nearby tree. But most seemed excited by Mog’s ceremony and listened attentively as he spoke of how the old gods would remember the glorious Abenaki nation that night.

  Brandt had his own chants and was interrupting the war chief as he spoke. “The rangers are coming!” he shouted in his high-pitched voice, then intoned the rangers’ owl call: “Who comes to kill! Who comes to kill!”

  Mog snarled, and one of his men knocked Brandt to the ground and hovered over him with a threatening war ax.

  “There is no second raid of rangers coming,” Mog loudly declared in French, indicating his captives. “You think these cowards who came to steal my brother’s wife are capable of a raid?”

  Duncan shook the blood from his eyes and studied the crowd, realizing the implications of Mog’s words. Before Brandt’s cry, there had been a rumor that rangers were coming.

  “There will be no raid tonight or any other night, for the rangers are broken! Let them come, and I will taste the sweet flesh of their hearts,” Mog declared with a wild laugh. “Tonight we will send a message that will be heard throughout the colonies! The Abenaki bear still has his claws, his teeth can still tear flesh, and his growl can tumble mountains!”