Remember the Morning (48 page)

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Authors: Thomas Fleming

BOOK: Remember the Morning
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“We could easily hang you and your African squaw,” Pouchot said. “But a fellow like you is clever enough to be useful to us. Here is my offer. A thousand livres a year if you switch sides and do your utmost to make the Senecas our allies in the next war.”
“Will there be another war?” Malcolm said. “I thought the last one ended to your satisfaction.”
“Not over here,” Pouchot said. “We've decided it's time to draw a line down the rivers and through the forests and say to the English—no farther. We have all the western tribes on our side. If we could bring the Senecas and some other Iroquois over, we would have a force ready to strike at their rear if the English tried to attack us.”
“Where will you build these forts?” Malcolm said.
Pouchot unrolled a map across his desk and invited Malcolm and Clara to follow his finger as he traced the French plan. “First we'll take Oswego. Then we'll move down the Lake of the Sacrament
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to the juncture with Lake George and build a strong fort there. Meanwhile, we'll send an expedition from Detroit to build another fort where the Ohio River meets the Monongahela in western Pennsylvania.
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There will be intermediate posts elsewhere—with the goal a ring of steel around the English colonies—from which we'll launch attacks that will drive them out of the Mohawk Valley and the western parts of Virginia and Pennsylvania.”
“Fascinating,” Malcolm said. “Will you have the men to manage this?”
“We've been guaranteed sixteen first-class regiments. We've thoroughly defeated the English in Europe. They won't dare challenge us there again—so we have a comfortable surplus of troops.”
“I'm deeply impressed, Captain,” Malcolm said. “Will you give me time to consider your offer?”
“Of course. We'll begin by making this mission a success. We're prepared to pay handsomely in guns and wampum and cloth to compensate Red Hawk's parents. We want them—and you—to return to your village praising Onontio.”
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“As well we should. I have no reason to be loyal to a government that persecutes me and the woman I love. But I must calculate a few things, Captain. A man can easily lose his head in this business.”
Clara listened to this with astonishment. She was even more astonished by what Malcolm said when they walked into the woods outside the fort to discuss the captain's offer.
“You're not seriously thinking of joining him, are you?” she asked.
“I'm thinking of pretending to join him. He's already told me enough to set the burghers of Albany and even the smug sophisticates of New York City trembling with fear. Sixteen regiments! Do you realize what they can do with that many trained men? We don't have one British regiment in the entire thirteen colonies. This is information that can change the course of history, Clara. I've got to get it to the governor of New York as soon as possible. Meanwhile, we've got to do everything in our power to hold the Senecas to our side in this war—”
Our side.
The words came naturally to Malcolm. They made Clara realize the dimension of the danger into which they were plunging. She
suddenly felt as if she were on a raft, whirling down the Niagara River toward the great falls. “What do you mean by our side?” she said.
“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,
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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 decorate 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.

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