by Gen Bailey
“I have not,” said Black Eagle.
“Then please honor me by seeking my longhouse first. My wife will set a meal before you that is quick, but nourishing. Then we will speak to the medicine man.”
Though still urged to hurry, Black Eagle ignored the feeling, and nodded. “I thank you for your hospitality. I will follow you.”
And so it was done.
William Johnson’s camp near the Battleground of Lake St. George
Nine days later
William Johnson was positioned in his tent, on his bed. At his side was Black Eagle, who had only just returned with Johnson and the other warriors from the healing waters. Said Johnson, “Black Eagle, ye did well for this heart of mine. I cannot begin to thank ye, son, for what ye and the other Mohawk’s have done. I know I speak not only for myself, but for the French commander, Dieskau. It is my hope that he will fare well enough that he will leave this country.”
Black Eagle nodded. “It is a good plan. It is well that you captured him in battle, and have sheltered him from harm, when others might have chosen to do differently.”
“Aye,” said Johnson. “I am certain we both will recover well because of all ye and the others have done. Now, come close to me, son, come close,” continued Johnson, clutching at Black Eagle’s shoulder. “Yer feet are quick, yer mind is bright, and I fear I will need your assistance yet again.”
Black Eagle didn’t speak. Rather, he bent toward the Irishman.
Said Johnson, “Would ye carry these messages to Albany for me? ”
“I would be honored.”
Johnson nodded. “I thought as much. Now, permit me to tell you what it is that I require. This message”—Johnson pointed to the sealed note in his hand—“be a letter to my wife and sister to make our home ready to receive the French commander. This other ’tis a letter to Governor Shirley, the devil take the man. A more disagreeable person I have never met. Yet, word has it that he has replaced Commander Braddock, who died in battle recently, God take his soul.”
Black Eagle nodded. “Is it your intention, then, to remain here, instead of returning to Albany? ”
“Aye, that I shall do. I fear that I am destined to construct a fort here to show the French that the English intend to remain. Otherwise the French may think they have liberty to force the entire valley to adhere to their command. ’Tis my duty to inform the commander-in-chief, Governor Shirley, of what I do, though I fear no good will come of it.”
Black Eagle nodded. “It is to be regretted that you must remain here, and that the Governor thinks more of his status than he does of winning battles,” he said.
“Aye,” said Johnson. “That it is.” He clutched at Black Eagle’s hand. “I fear my wife’s face swims before me. No mistake, I miss her, especially after all this business here. Now, son, here are the letters. Be fast.”
Again Black Eagle nodded. “Your home, Johnson Hall, is well known to me, and I should have no trouble delivering the first letter. But where will I find Governor Shirley? Is he in Albany? ”
“Aye, that he is. Governor Shirley is stationed in the home of John Rathburn, a well-known financier. He lives near the southern end of Albany. Do ye think ye can find it? ”
Again, Black Eagle nodded.
“Take these notes to their destination, lad, as quickly as ye can and tell Governor Shirley this for me: ‘A fort is required here to show the French that we mean to stay, and that we will not tolerate French presence on land that is claimed by King George.’ Tell the governor that I will be staying here to oversee our new fort’s construction.”
“I will.” Black Eagle frowned. “Is it your belief, then, that the war between yourself and the French has not ended? ”
“I fear it has barely begun.”
“Then there will more fighting.” Black Eagle spoke as though to himself. “Tell me, why do the English hate the French so much? ” he asked. “Would it not be better to stop this fighting and try to live as neighbors? ”
“Do ye forget what all yer people have suffered at the hands of the French? ”
“I do not forget. Imbedded in my memory is the massacre of my people by Champlain. But it will not be an easy victory if the war does not stop here. Relatives of the Mohawk, who are allied to the French, may fight with the French, and I fear if this war continues, the Mohawk will yet witness brother pitted against brother.”
Johnson scowled. “It is the French who started this war.”
Black Eagle grimaced. “Is it? My relatives in the North tell me that the French say the English started the war.”
Johnson cleared his throat. “Now don’t ye be forgettin’ the covenant chain yer people hold with mine.”
Black Eagle remained silent. The covenant chain, a simple agreement between his people and the English, tied the Mohawk to the English.
“Son,” continued Johnson, “much depends on this message yer bringing to Shirley. Yer the best that I have. Can I depend on ye? ”
When Black Eagle didn’t reply at once, Johnson paused, and it did not escape Black Eagle that Johnson’s look took in his measure.
“I know ye have already run a good distance in these last few days, but ye are rested now,” continued Johnson. “Can ye do it? ”
Black Eagle nodded.
Johnson relaxed. “Thank God that ye are here and that ye are willin’ to do it,” said Johnson as he handed over the note. “God speed.”
One
Albany, New York
September, 1755
Midnight
Gasping, Marisa Jameson awoke suddenly. Sitting up, she coughed, breathing in swiftly and wheezing as she dislodged whatever it was that seemed intent on choking her.
With eyes wide, she wondered if it were only this that had disturbed her sleep. Or was it something else? A dream perhaps? She searched her memory. She couldn’t remember.
Sighing, she reached for the cup of milk that was resting atop her nightstand. But as she clasped her hand around what should have been a cup, it met with nothing but air. She frowned, then lifted her brows.
Oh, yes, she recalled it now. She had asked Sarah to take the distasteful milk back to the kitchen, and good riddance to it. It had been sour, something Marisa could barely tolerate.
Marisa sighed, and throwing back the coverlets of soft wool and cotton, she sat up. Casting her legs over the side of the four-poster bed, she plunged her feet into the slippers that had been positioned there especially for her.
As she stood, the soft beaver felt that lined the slippers warmed her feet. But she barely took notice of the convenience. Luxuries were too commonplace for her to contemplate their origins, or sigh over their costs, be those costs financial or of a more life-giving nature.
Grabbing for her sleeping jacket, she pulled the linen material of it over her chemise and padded toward the pitcher of water Sarah was certain to have set out on the nightstand. Not bothering to pour the liquid into a cup, Marisa took a sip of the water from the ladle.
That’s when she heard them. Footsteps and hushed voices. Outside her door.
Her heart skipped a beat, and her head came up. Was she in danger?
She held her breath.
No, thank God. The footsteps were fading into nothing; the creaking of a door being opened and closed at the end of the corridor announcing that whoever was out there had no intention of disturbing her.
But it was odd. It was the middle of the night. Could her step-uncle, John Rathburn, be entertaining at this hour? Or was it Governor Shirley?
Perhaps it was Shirley, since the Governor had made the Rathburn house the center of his command. Was the Governor liaising with someone at this hour? With an officer of the militia perhaps?
Marisa drew out a long breath. War. What could be more inconvenient?
She frowned as a thought crossed her mind. It was doubtful that whoever had disturbed her was the governor, since his quarters, which were situated alongside of her step-uncle’s, were stationed in the west wi
ng of the Rathburn residence. Marisa’s rooms, on the other hand, were located in the east wing, far away from the governor or any other male member of the household.
Then who was it? What was it? She had not imagined those footsteps . . . or had she?
Marisa stirred uneasily. She supposed she would have to be the one to discover if it were phantom or human being that had passed by her door, otherwise she would worry over the possibilities the night through.
If only Sarah’s rooms were situated closer to her own.
Again Marisa sighed. Because there was a chill in the house at this time of year, Marisa opened her chest of drawers and grabbed hold of a dressing gown. Shoving her arms through its long sleeves, she tied the ribbons, which held the robe in place, around her neck in front.
Her hand reached for the candlestick holder. But halfway to it, she hesitated.
No. That wasn’t wise. If there were a clandestine meeting occurring within this wing of her home, a light, any light, would only serve to announce her approach. Besides, she could see well enough without a stream of light, since her eyes were already accustomed to the dark.
Slowly, she pulled open the door to her chamber, and tiptoed out into the corridor. She turned to her right, since it seemed that the footsteps had faded in that direction. Cautiously she swept forward.
Further along the corridor she saw it at last, a shaft of illumination quivering beneath the door jamb of the farthest room in the east wing. Barely daring to breathe, she stole toward that door, plodding one careful footfall after another, until she had come so closely up to the door, she could hear the muffled voices in the room beyond.
Pressing her ear to the door, she recognized her step-uncle’s voice at once:
“Ye will be required to dress as the Indians do,” he was saying. “Are there those amongst ye willing to shave their head so that they might resemble the Indians more closely? ”
“Aye, Gov’nor. For what you be paying them, this be no problem. No problem a’tall.”
Marisa didn’t recognize the ownership of that low and gravelly voice. She pressed in more closely to the door.
It was her step-uncle speaking once more. “The town is just across the Pennsylvania border. ’Tis a Dutch village, which ye will find . . . right here.”
The men paused, and Marisa could only surmise that her step-uncle was pointing to a map.
“Over here, to the south and the west,” he continued, “are the tobacco fields, which should be barren at this time of year. They had a good crop this year.” There was the sound of the map being rolled together. Then her step-uncle continued, “Now here be the plans: Ye are to set the entire area to flame, do ye understand? Nothing is to be spared. Town and fields are to be burned so that nothing is left standing.”
“I understand, Gov’nor,” said that unusually low voice. It was strange, thought Marisa, because no emotion was echoed in the voice she heard, as though the man were being asked to do no more than walk the dog. But the man was continuing, and he said, “What I fail to grasp, beg pardon, is why.”
“ ’Tis not yer place to understand why I ask this of ye. Are ye not being paid enough to make the act worth yer while? ”
“But I need tell the men something,” that low voice insisted, “if they are to destroy everythin’ there, there must be a reason.”
A long pause followed, then, “Very well,” said Rathburn. “If ye be insisting on telling them something, tell them that certain of the Dutch colony molested a young girl. That should set their sense of duty afire.”
“Aye, Gov’nor. That it should. But pardon sir, is it the truth? Did someone from the colony molest a maiden? ”
“Of course ’tis not true. But I’ll not be having ye force me to speak the truth to yer men.”
“But ye will tell me? The truth? ”
“I will, provided I have yer word that it goes no farther than this room.” Rathburn paused.
“Ye have it.”
“Very well,” said Rathburn, and Marisa, still listening at the door, could easily envision her step-uncle’s self-satisfied smile. “Suffice it to say,” Rathburn continued, “that the destruction of the Dutch homes and their fields will cause their loans to be called in, which the townspeople will be obliged to pay to me.”
“Aye, Gov’nor. But if all the Dutch land is destroyed, how will they pay ye what they owe ye? ”
Rathburn laughed. “’Tis a problem, indeed.” Again Rathburn hesitated. “Perhaps the land will have to be confiscated as payment.”
“Ah,” said the unknown voice. “ ’Tis a means by which to extend your influence? ”
“Exactly,” agreed Rathburn. “Their fields will be ready to bear more tobacco within a year or perhaps two, and the Dutch will be obliged to work the fields, which will then belong to me.”
“Ah, now I understand.”
“Do ye? Do ye grasp it in full, then? ”
“I believe so, Gov’nor. Ye will own the land. The profit will be all yers.”
“And the people,” added Rathburn. “Don’t forget that the people and their labor will also be mine.”
“But they is white people, a free people. If ye own them, then . . . What you speak of is . . . it’s slavery, ain’t it, Gov’nor? ”
“Perhaps. At least it will be so for five years.”
“Five years? ”
“The amount of time it will take the people to work off their obligation, I think.”
“Ah! I understand. ’Tis indentured servitude that ye seek from them.”
“Yes. And the profits will be quite . . . shall we say, profitable? ”
“Aye! That’s right smart, Gov’nor.”
“Indeed.”
There was a pause. Then the two men laughed.
However, on the other side of the door, Marisa frowned. Was there something innately intelligent about the destruction of others’ livelihood and property?
But then, perhaps, she was too naive to understand it. Mayhap such deeds as this were commonplace amongst the wealthy, a means by which fortunes were made. But if this were so, did she approve . . . ?
It wasn’t as if she cared about a people she didn’t even know. It was only that the scheme seemed to be pure trickery, stealth.
Footsteps sounded on the other side of the door, nearing her position. Marisa panicked.
She mustn’t be discovered.
Taking a quick step backward, Marisa spun around on her heel and fled. She knew her escape required her ability to be as noiseless as possible, but as her nightgown swished out behind her, and her slippers whispered over the hardwood floor, she doubted her success. Her white chemise and dressing gown billowed out in back of her, adding to her discomfort and causing her to feel much like a phantom.
It seemed to take forever to run the distance of the corridor, but at last her door loomed before her. Reaching out to turn the doorknob, it swung easily open, and she stepped into her room none too soon. Footsteps echoed along the corridor in her wake, and Marisa leaned against the door, gasping, praying that she hadn’t been seen.
The footsteps came closer and closer. Was it her imagination or were they loud? As if her uncle and his guest, the unknown gentleman, had no care that they might awaken the single resident of this wing.
The two men paused outside her door, and Marisa’s heart stopped in reaction, then it suddenly raced headlong. She shut her eyes and prayed to the Lord that she should remain undiscovered.
Perhaps it was the prayer that did it. Though she could feel every beat of her pounding heart in her throat, nothing untoward happened. The footsteps wandered on past her door until her step-uncle and his bully were well out of earshot.
Still Marisa barely dared to breathe.
Alas, she was still leaning heavily against her door when it occurred to her that this entire episode couldn’t possibly be real. It simply could not be. How could her own step-uncle be involved in a plan to destroy the lands and livelihood of an entire village? Worse, wit
h further plans to enslave every soul within that village?
It simply couldn’t be.
Marisa forced herself to breathe in deeply, then out again. But the calming effect of the action did not materialize. Far from being consoled by her late-night discovery, Marisa was alarmed.
Coming away from the door, she wondered what she should do with this knowledge? Should she perhaps seek out someone of authority?
Not likely. She had no proof of any wrongdoing, and since she was herself under the jurisdiction of her step-uncle, she could not legally give witness against him. Nor did she wish to do so.
Though John Rathburn might be an indifferent guardian, he was still her only relative, her parents having perished long ago during the journey here to America. Luckily, Marisa was not remembering the particulars of that journey. After all, she had been little more than a babe.
One thing was certain. She couldn’t stand here the night through. Propping herself away from the solid oak of the door, she began to pace her room. What to do? Should she try to forget the entire episode? After all, what was a town of Dutch settlers to her? They were faceless people.
Besides, were the Colonies not already at war? Was it not true that lives were already being spent? Besides, no lives in that Pennsylvania town would be at risk . . . or would they?
Might they not try to save their property?
Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not kill. The Commandments from the Scripture streamed through her mind.
What to do? What to do?
As she trod down the length of her room and back again, Marisa gradually drifted toward her bedside table, where the basin and pitcher of water still stood, placed there at the start of the evening by her own dear friend Sarah.
Sarah.
Sarah, her maid. Sarah, her friend. Sarah, who was more like a mother or a big sister to her. If anyone would know what to do, it was Sarah. Heaving a sigh of relief, Marisa felt better almost at once.
Feeling calmer, Marisa wondered if perhaps she might yet be able to find some sleep this night. In preparation, she removed her dressing gown, as well as her sleeping jacket, and lay them at the foot of her bed. Crawling between the covers, Marisa at last settled in, knowing that on the morrow, she would tell Sarah about the entire episode.