Fire Along the Sky Fire Along the Sky

by Sara Donati

  Luke's calm expression faltered, and a muscle in his cheek twitched. “I judge a man on the way he lives his own life, not on his family.”

  “And how does Simon live his life?”

  Luke cleared his throat. “He's clever and hardworking and trustworthy. In business matters I trust him completely, and he has never given me cause to do otherwise.”

  “I congratulate you on your rational philosophy,” Lily said, pointedly picking up her book. “I think I will take it for my own.”

  “You are your mother's daughter,” Luke said gruffly.

  “I will take that as a compliment.”

  His mouth twitched. “It was meant as one.” He turned back to his books, and Lily to hers.

  Chapter 9

  Dearest Daughter Lily,

  The calendar tells me that it is not so very long since you left us, and so we were especially surprised and delighted to receive a second packet from Montreal just yesterday. Twenty-five drawings—your little brother counted them straightaway—and in addition to such riches, letters and gifts for all of us. There was much celebration here during the unpacking. Had you been able to see the look on Annie's face when your letter was put into her hands, you would understand how much joy your thoughtfulness brought to us all. Even your aunt Many-Doves had tears in her eyes.

  Each of your drawings is studied at great length and discussed, for we find so much to wonder about. You father was surprised to see that Luke chose to give you Giselle's old bedchamber for your own. It is a beautiful room, of course, and you must be very comfortable there. And still your father is not satisfied; he says that he must write to your brother and require that the secret stairway that leads out into the gardens be bricked up so as not to tempt you into running about the city at night. You see that neither his fatherly concern nor his rather odd sense of humor are improved or made milder by the long distance between us.

  Gabriel took one look at the likeness of Monsieur Picot—if I have understood correctly, the gentleman who tutors you in the painting of landscapes—and gave him the nickname Catfish for his bristling mustache and puffy mouth. He was admonished for such discourtesy but I fear it was all for naught, as your father laughed out loud in agreement.

  Between your drawings and notes and Luke's very informative letter we have come to understand that you are flourishing; the neighborhood is delighted with you, your teachers praise you for your powers of concentration, excellent sense of proportion and line, and for your hard work, and Iona looks after you as if you were her own granddaughter. That you are making so much of this opportunity does not surprise us, but your father and I are nonetheless pleased and gratified. You make us all very proud.

  Your aunt Many-Doves asks me to report to you that the harvest is done and she is well pleased. The three sisters are here in abundance: the rafters groan under their happy burden of corn and squash and beans. We have ten full bushels of apples this year. The last of the geese have passed over and the first snow fell yesterday, no more than a dusting, but in the morning there was a half-inch of ice on the water bucket.

  The winter is come; Jennet holds up her head and sniffs the sky and tells us so, and we have learned that when it comes to predicting the weather her sense of smell is without peer. All the signs point to a hard winter, but I fear she does not rightly understand what that means in the endless forests; she looks forward to it now, but by December I fear she will long for Scotland's milder weather.

  Right now your cousin sits across from me scribbling furiously on her own letter to your brother, in response to the one she received from him. She has folded the silk shawl he sent around her shoulders and there is bright color in her cheeks. His letter first made her scowl and then laugh out loud. I trust her response will provide him with the same joy.

  Jennet has made herself indispensable to all of us. We have had more visitors from the village in the last few weeks than we had all year, people coming with messages that could wait or to ask questions that require no answer, and who only stay for any length of time if Jennet is about. They come to hear her stories or simply to talk to her, as a man who has been chilled to the bone will be drawn to a well-laid fire. She is our own Scheherazade, and I think of her as your counterpart: she tells the tales that you would draw if you were here with us at dusk, gathered around the hearth, each of us busy with some work but all listening attentively.

  By day Jennet is always occupied with whatever work presents itself, most usually as Hannah's assistant when she goes to see patients in the village. Hannah tells me that Jennet is a quick learner and an excellent assistant, not only for her powers of distracting the sick but also because she understands what is required of her with few words and has an excellent memory.

  In truth it is fortunate that Jennet is willing and able to assist Hannah. Your uncle Todd's health continues to decline and Curiosity is more and more consumed with his care. He is often in considerable pain and very short of temper but even he seems to gentle when Hannah and Jennet come to sit with him. Hannah has brought him paints and paper, in the hope he will take up his old hobby of painting landscapes, while Jennet lays out her tarot cards for him. Uncle Todd scoffs and grumbles and tries not to smile in delight at her more outlandish predictions: he will travel to India and be crowned a prince, or a messenger with green eyes and a broken front tooth is on his way to bring news of a long-lost friend.

  Because Hannah and Jennet have taken on responsibility for the sick in the village, cousin Ethan is free to pursue his own studies. He now takes my place as teacher four days of the week, a task which pleases him well and, I must admit, has provided me considerable relief. I had thought to use the extra time to see to household chores but your aunt Many-Doves will not hear of it, and neither will your father: I am to write as much as I like. Yesterday I sent off three essays to Mr. Howe of the New-York Spectator. In his last letter he reported to me that the writings of E. M. Bonner have been well received by the readership and he looks forward to more submissions.

  Your sister is writing a letter to you, but as I did promise you regular reports on her health and state of mind I send you my observations. Every day she seems a little improved. Jennet, I think, must be given a good part of the credit. She understands Hannah in a way I cannot, though I have spent much time in thought on how to best serve her needs. Jennet knows when to speak, when to admonish, when to cajole, and most importantly when to listen quietly and ask no questions. I will confess to you alone that sometimes I envy their closeness, but then I am ashamed of my selfish thoughts.

  Hannah has begun to teach Gabriel and Annie how to use the bow and arrow, and she is a patient if exacting teacher. When she does not need to go to the village to see patients she is happy to take up whatever household chores present themselves, and it seems to me that she dislikes being out of doors, an idea so truly outlandish that it seems strange to put it down in words. And yet the impression persists.

  Every day Hannah visits with Dolly Wilde and brings her teas to drink. In fact it seems as though cautious optimism is not out of place, as Dolly sometimes seems to recognize the people around her now. Whether this is Hannah's treatment or the natural course of her condition no one can say. And still when I happen to see Nicholas in the village he is very drawn and pale, though he greets me politely and asks after you and your brother both. Yesterday when your father took your newest drawings into the trading post to show, Nicholas spent a long time looking at them.

  We have had only one short note from your twin, written on poor paper with poorer ink but in his true hand. I will copy it out at the end of this letter for you to read. Your father tells me that there is nothing in its cautious language to cause us concern. In this, as in so many things having to do with men's wars, I must depend on your father's interpretation and be directed by him. If only my imagination and dreams were so easily constrained.

  I do hope this bundle of our thoughts and good wishes reaches you by means of your brother's mysterious trade c
onnections, and that it brings you some relief from your homesickness. We think of you every day with great affection and pride.

  Your loving mother

  Elizabeth Middleton Bonner

  October 30, 1812

  To my dear family, mother and father,

  A courier leaves at dawn headed for Canajoharee and so I burn my last candle in order to send you our news. Please know that Blue-Jay and I are both well in body and spirit. The worst injury we have between us thus far is an infected blackfly bite on my arm which I cleaned out and cauterized with the tip of my knife, as Sister would approve.

  The war here on the St. Lawrence is a strange affair. We drill in full view of the British on the other side of the river and they do the same. All real business takes place under cover of night. Blue-Jay has made himself especially useful as he moves like an owl in the dark, and thus has he won Jim Booke's admiration. We all call our captain by his family name, for he thinks very little of the American army and will not use any of the titles that he might claim for himself. He has begrudging admiration for one officer only, Jacob Brown, who commands all the regulars and militia from Oswego to Oswegatchie, where he has set up headquarters.

  We are not much loved here by the Yorkers, who had been selling their beef on the hoof to the British army at tremendous profit and now must pretend at least to obey the law. On the street I heard one farmer say to another that he found it damned hard to call any man an enemy who offered him such a good price for his cattle. In general the farmers and tradesmen alike are unwilling to support Mr. Madison's war, as they call it, though they shout loud enough for us to protect them when the British come raiding, and steal what they might have otherwise paid good coin for.

  The only regulars General Brown has under him are a unit of riflemen in smart green uniforms. They are excellent shots, every one of them, but Booke dislikes the captain who leads them, called Benjamin Forsyth. He is a spectacular rifleman in his own right, but his bravado outstrips his common sense too often, or so claims Jim Booke.

  Be content to know that we are honing every skill a soldier needs to stay alive and do his duty, and we are learning from the best. Booke may dislike the American army and distrust the government that gave it birth, but he truly hates the British Crown and is single-minded in his goal to chase them off once and for all. He is a hard taskmaster but an honest and fair one, and we count ourselves fortunate to be under his command. I hope one day that you will make his acquaintance, but as he is shy of crowds and any settled place, I fear that day may never come.

  My love to all the family, to Curiosity and Uncle Todd and especially cousin Ethan, and anyone else who might ask after me. To my beloved sister and brother in Montreal, when you next write to them, my most affectionate greetings and hopes that Lily has forgiven me my trespasses.

  Your son

  Daniel Bonner of

  Jim Booke's militia

  7 September in the year 1812

  Dear Sister Lily and Brother Luke,

  Cousin Jennet puts down my words for me because the quill behaves in her hand as it will not in mine and she need not bother our mother to ask how to write every word. Mother would do this service but first she would change around what I say in order to suit her ear and Jennet has promised to put down all my words as I say them. You see it's true for our brother Luke sends a letter that doesn't sound like him, and yet our mother is proud and says what a good writer he is become. I asked her then, for what reason do we write letters but to hear each other's voices? And she said I would understand better when I had studied more, though she did look thoughtful and was quiet for a good while after.

  The only news I can think to tell that no one else will bother to write is what happened last week when Many-Doves declared that the corn was dry enough to start the milling. Everyone put down their work and loaded oxcarts and wagons to line up at the scales, but then it was discovered that Charlie LeBlanc had taken down the sluice gate to mend and couldn't recall where he left it. Then when the boys found it finally under a pile of empty sacks, it turned out that he had never repaired it at all. Anybody determined to make a study of cursing would have learned a great deal that day, most especially from old Missus Hindle who can be wonderful angry in five languages. Among other things that dare not be writ down she called Charlie a rot-riddled pompkin head.

  Thank you very kindly for the drawings and the tin of chocolate for drinking and the sweets and the carved horses. The tin is already empty, a true mystery says our father, and our mother says I am not to ask for more, for it would be greedy and ill-mannered. She says I may have the empty tin to save my treasures in. I must share it with Annie who has no tin of her own unless you were to send another one. Empty or filled, it is most certainly up to you.

  Yesterday the dogs chased a possum up the pine tree with the broken top. I tried to hit it with my bow and arrow and missed, but Sister did not. We had stew for our dinner. She says I have a keen eye and will make a good marksman, which of course I do and will, as I am the son of Nathaniel Bonner and grandson of Daniel Bonner who is still called Hawkeye by all who knew him. This letter has grown too long for the paper and soon cousin Jennet will have a cramp in her hand so I will stop.

  Your best loved brother

  Gabriel Bonner

  Our dearest girl Lily,

  There's a rider headed up Montreal way and timely, too, for I have just finished a pair of good stockings to send to you, of lamb's wool bought from Mrs. Ratz that young Annie helped me card and comb and spin. Good heavy stockings, and warm. Mind me now: Canada cold a wily cold, damp and slick. Before you know it that wind will weasel way deep into your lights to start you coughing. So you put on your warmest underclothes and woolen skirts and thickest stockings, every day. Cold feet will be the undoing of you, child, and if you take sick up there your mama or your daddy or your sister or the Lord knows the whole clan will set off to come rescue you from your own folly. I love your people like my own but can't nobody deny, the Bonners run off cockeyed at any chance to get themselves in a fix. I fear it is bred in the bone. So keep warm, child, and for the Lord's sake don't take no advice from them Frenchified doctors and don't let them get near you with those lancets they so fond of. I'm too old to be marching off to Canada to keep you all out of trouble.

  Along with the stockings I send you a half-dozen of my best candles, fine bayberry beeswax, just dipped with good strong wicks spun by Many-Doves' Annie in my kitchen. She is a clever child, is Annie. Mind you use these candles, for if you don't look out for your pretty eyes why then they won't look out for you when you need them most.

  In your letter you wrote that you have taken up what you call sculpture and to me sound more like carving or working wood, as my husband Galileo may the Lord bless his everlasting good soul was so fond of. If it turn out you got a feel for wood it wouldn't surprise me none, coming up as you did surrounded by trees. What I mean to say, though the words don't seem to want to order themselves on the page, is this: you make good use of whatever they got to teach you up there, so when you come home again you ready to stay put. The truth is plain and won't be hushed. You belong here, Lily Bonner, on the mountain where you came into the world. Montreal may be a big city but it's too small a place for a soul like yours.

  writ by her own poor hand your friend good and true Curiosity Freeman

  Dear Lily,

  This is the first time in more than a year that I have taken up quill and ink. It comes to me with difficulty, but I could not let another packet be sent off to you without at least a few words.

  We miss you here at Lake in the Clouds, as you are missed in the village. Wherever I go on my rounds people ask of you and your studies and your life in Montreal. They tell stories of you and bring out the many drawings you have made and given over the years, as they might take out a letter from the president himself, with great respect and admiration.

  Most of all I miss talking to you late into the night and waking to find you just across the
room. I tell myself that this separation will not be forever, and I tell you the same. When you are come home we will have much to tell each other.

  Your loving and devoted sister

  Hannah Bonner, also called Walks-Ahead by her mother's people or Walking-Woman by her husband's.

  Chapter 10

  The morning was half gone when the sky came over dark and Nathaniel first tasted new snow on the wind. He wiped his sweaty face on his sleeve and in one practiced motion slung the doe he had tracked for more than a mile across his shoulders. She was young and there wasn't a lot of fat on her, but fresh venison would be a welcome change from salt cod and dried bear meat stew.

  Game was thin this winter. The last few nights he had dreamed of bear and deer and moose on the run, side by side, in a hurry to be gone to the west, looking for a place less honeycombed with the trails made by white men. In his dreams the animals would sometimes bear the faces of the people who were gone from him: his first wife, old friends, the children they had buried. His grandfather Chingachgook, his father, who had walked away ten years ago to find some peace in the west.

  He couldn't say for sure if Hawkeye was alive or dead. With every passing year it was a little more likely, of course. And still Nathaniel couldn't make himself believe that his father could be gone for good; he would come back to die here, where his people were buried. Nathaniel told himself this now and then, because he didn't want to think of Hawkeye in a shallow grave on the Great Plains someplace, with no mountains in sight. He might die alone or among strangers, but either way there would be no one there to sing him his death song in his own language.

  On the morning Hawkeye left there had been no time or energy to feel much at all, not regret or fear or loneliness. Even at the time Nathaniel had known that those things would come later. His Hannah was about to leave home too, and the fact that Hawkeye was with her almost made up for the fact that his daughter was old enough to have chosen a husband.