Shadowbrook (6 page)

“That’s how it is with the
Irinakhoiw,
the snakes. Not with us. Potawatomi men are strong. They aren’t ruled by women.”

“The Kahniankehaka aren’t snakes. And they’re plenty strong.” Quent jerked his head toward the distant hills and the land of the Mohawk. “The other
Haudenosaunee
call them the Guardians of the Eastern Door.” He’d been listening to visitors to Shadowbrook tell Indian stories for as long as he could remember.

“Not as strong as we are,” Cormac insisted. “The Potawatomi are the People of the Place of the Fire. Nothing’s stronger than fire.”

“Kahniankehaka means the people of the flint. Flint doesn’t burn.”

“Fire is over everything. The strongest thing of all. You wait, you’ll see.”

Eventually he did. But in that winter when Pohantis and Cormac came and changed his world, Quent first discovered a number of other truths. Among them, how mean his older brother John could be.

John was seventeen. Six other children had been born in the eight years between the brothers, but none lived more than a few months. Once Quent heard Kitchen Hannah say that what John liked least about his baby brother was that he lived. “That John Hale, he got himself accustomed to being mostly prized in this house simply for surviving. Not having to do nothing else to be special. Then little Quentin came along and he survived too, and John Hale, he didn’t like that.”

Quent guessed that was true, but he didn’t worry too much about it. Mostly John ignored him. The younger boy was something to be put up with, like the flies of spring and the mosquitoes of summer and the mice that came indoors when it got cold. Quent tried to ignore John in his turn, but it wasn’t always possible.

Do Good was on the northern rim of Shadowbrook’s land, a couple of hours upriver from the big house. The people who lived there called themselves Friends; everyone else called them Quakers, because, it was said, they quaked before the Lord. That was maybe why they were known to be the most straight-dealing people in the colonies. Once the Quakers said it would be so—they refused to take an oath because it implied they were not always telling the truth—it was so.

Ephraim Hale allowed the Quakers to settle on his land for precisely that reason. They ran his trading post and did all Shadowbrook’s business with the local Indians. The Kahniankehaka brought furs to Do Good to exchange for metal tools, woven cloth, and of course ale and spirits. Periodically the Quakers took the pelts of beaver, otter, bear, and seal to New York City and sold them. Ephraim had no part in the business side of the Do Good trading post, but he never for a moment doubted that he was getting the two-fifths part of the proceeds to which he was entitled in their agreement.

That February Ephraim sent his eldest son to Do Good to collect what Shadowbrook was owed. “Take the young ones with you.”

John had yet to say Cormac Shea’s name aloud. “Both of them?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

John looked quickly upstairs toward the adjoining bedrooms occupied by his mother and his father, then in the direction of the little room near the kitchen where the Potawatomi whore spent most of her time. “Maybe Mother would care for an outing,” he said, looking straight at his father. “Shall I ask her?”

Ephraim didn’t flinch from his eldest son’s glance. “Your mother is staying here. And if you want to be allowed to do the same, you’d best do as I say.”

John took Quent and Cormac with him to Do Good.

The trading post was built of split logs; it was the biggest building in the settlement and the first built. The houses and the pair of barns at either end of the single village road were made of planked wood from Shadowbrook’s sawmill. The
barn at the opposite end from the trading post was the Friends’ meeting house and had been given a coat of whitewash. That made it the fanciest thing in the place, except maybe for the sign that said DO GOOD TRADING POST in black letters on a white board.

Inside the trading post Esther Snowberry stood at a long wooden counter. Behind her the wall was lined with shelves containing bolts of homespun, rows of tin mugs and crockery bowls, and heavy metal frying pans called spiders with three short legs so they could stand beside the hearth. One entire shelf held brown crockery jugs filled with the rum Moses Frankel distilled from the boat-loads of Caribbean sugar that arrived at Shadowbrook’s downriver wharf. After the sugar was offloaded the ships took on the plantation’s grain and vegetables and barrels of salted pork and venison. Without those foodstuffs the Barbadian planters and their slaves would starve, since every inch of their soil was given over to cane, the king of all cash crops.

On the counter beside Esther was a pile of furs, a mix of thick brown beaver pelts and a few gray-black sealskins. She had obviously been inspecting them, but she looked up from the task the moment the Hale brothers and Cormac Shea arrived. “Welcome, John Hale. I hope all is well with thee and thine at the big house.”

“Well enough. I’ve come for our share.”

“Of course. It’s put by for thee. But first thee must take a seat by the fire and have a warm drink and some food. And thy two young companions as well.”

There was a large fireplace at the other side of the room, flanked by two long pine settles with high backs to keep off the drafts and broad seats that offered a place to rest and take comfort in the warmth of the hearth. The only other people in the trading post were an Indian studying a display of hunting knives at the far end of Esther’s counter, and a small girl dressed exactly like Esther, in a gray dress with no trim, not even buttons or collar, and a pristine white mobcap without a ruffle.

The girl was seated beside the fire busily stitching and pretending to take no notice of the visitors. “Judith, take thyself at once to fetch thy father and Edward Taylor. Thee is to tell them John Hale is come to collect his father’s portion. And tell Prudence to bring johnnycakes and hot cider.”

Quent paid the little girl no mind. He was peering into the shadows at the brave who was bent over the knives. The blue tattoos on his cheeks proclaimed him Kahniankehaka. His hair was long and black and fell free to his shoulders. Quent knew that if the brave were on the warpath he would have shaved his head, leaving only a scalp lock that challenged his enemies to take it. He’d heard plenty of stories about fierce Kahniankehaka warriors who had fought beside the English against the French back before he was born, in what his father called Queen
Ann’s War, but everyone said the Kahniankehaka who lived around Shadowbrook were peaceful. Be that as it may, Quent wasn’t sure what would happen if this brave knew Cormac was half Potawatomi. Corm had already told him the Potawatomi were the sworn enemies of all the
Irinakhoiw.

John was apparently wondering the same thing. “You know my little brother Quentin, Esther. This other one’s a métis, a half-Potawatomi brat. The story goes that the Huron cut out his father’s heart and ate it, but they must have been too full to bother with this little something extra.”

He’d said it loud enough so the brave had to hear, but the Indian didn’t look up until he’d selected one of the knives. He came toward them carrying it. Cormac stared straight at him and took a couple of steps forward, so he was in front of both Quent and John. Quent’s eyes darted back and forth between the Mohawk brave and Cormac Shea, whose head didn’t quite come up to his shoulder. Quent moved just enough so he was closer to Corm. In case. Behind them John chuckled.

The brave ignored both children. “This knife,” he said, showing his choice to Esther Snowberry. “And the cloth you have measured. And two jugs.”

Esther frowned slightly, but she reached behind her and put two jugs of rum on the counter beside the cloth and the knife. The Quakers were abstemious in the matter of drink, but one of the conditions of their settlement on Ephraim Hale’s land had been an agreement that their trading post would deal in Shadowbrook’s rum. Few Indians would come to trade otherwise. “Thee is then fully and fairly paid for thy skins,” Esther said, nodding toward the pile of pelts on the counter. “Dost thou agree?”

The Indian nodded and collected his goods. On the way out, never once having looked directly at the little boys standing shoulder-to-shoulder, he said quietly, “The hearts of those who hide behind squaws and children would not be worthy of eating. The Kahniankehaka would throw them to the dogs.”

No sooner had the door closed behind the brave than it opened again. Esther’s husband had arrived, bringing two other men with him. “Thee is welcome, John Hale,” Martin Snowberry said. “Thee knows Edward Taylor.” Martin indicated his Do Good neighbor with a nod, then turned to the third man. “This is another visitor, Daniel Willis, who comes to us from Rhode Island.”

The men took seats beside the fire. Prudence arrived carrying a basket filled with still warm corncakes and a jug of sweet apple cider that steamed when she poured it into small crockery drinking bowls. The black woman served the men first, then Quent and Cormac, and finally Judith. Esther refused the refreshments and tied the skins into a neat bundle.

Edward Taylor had been summoned in his capacity as the keeper of Do Good’s purse. He leaned forward and passed a soft deerskin pouch to John. “Thy father’s share of the last trip to New York City is here. Seventeen pounds and eleven
shillings. All good coin. Louis d’or and
daalders
and Portuguese
cruzados
and the like. Thee need not hesitate to count them if thee wishes.”

John hefted the pouch in his hand and the coins inside jingled softly. He loosened the drawstring but made no further move to count the money. “What brings you to Shadowbrook, Mr. Willis?”

“There is no need to call me mister, John Hale. I’m told thee does not share our beliefs, but thee should know I seek no title of any kind.”

“Very well—-Daniel, then. What brings you to Shadowbrook from Rhode Island in the dead of winter? It can’t have been an easy journey.”

“Easy enough since it ended safely. I come on the urging of the Light Within, John Hale. To bring a message.”

“Oh? What message is that?”

“It is time we stop buying and selling our fellow creatures.”

John looked over at the bundle of pelts that lay on the counter. “You worried about the seals and the beaver, Daniel? We’d be overrun with the things if we didn’t trap ‘em.”

“I speak not of animals but of people, John Hale. Negro people like Prudence here.”

Quent shot a look at the black woman. She stood absolutely still and stared straight ahead, as if she did not hear what was being said. “What do you say to that, Prudence?” John asked. “You think you’ve been treated right?”

Prudence didn’t answer.

“Thee may reply if thee wishes,” Martin Snowberry said quietly. “I confess, I would hear thy answer.”

“Ain’t nobody in this place be’s mean to me.” Prudence didn’t look at them and began packing the basket with the remains of the food.

“But thee is not paid for thy labor,” Daniel Willis said. “Thee gets no reward for thy toil. In the Bible it says the workman is worthy of his hire.”

Esther was looking from Prudence to Daniel Willis with some consternation. “In his letter to the Colossians Paul says to be fair and just in the way thee treatest slaves. Would he say that if the owning of them were contrary to God’s law?”

“Dost thee not believe that the Light Within is stronger than any written word, Esther?”

“Of course I do. But we bought Prudence from a man who whipped her regularly. No one whips her here, and she is properly clothed and housed and fed. Thee must believe that it is better we bought her from a master who treated her so poorly.”

Daniel Willis shook his head. “Thee canst not buy another human being.”

“That would certainly surprise parliament and the king,” John said. The Province of New York was the only English colony with a royal governor
appointed by London; all the others had a right of self-rule written into their charters. But though no territory north of Virginia approached the number of slaves bought and sold and owned in New York, one way or another they all—north and south alike—depended on the trade for their financial health. “Nor, I suspect, would the merchants of Rhode Island be happy with the news.”

“Slavery is against the will of God,” Daniel Willis insisted. “Thee canst not buy and sell thy fellow human beings, nor expect them to work on thy behalf without fair recompense.”

John stood up. “Not another white human being, perhaps. Nigras and Indians are different. And half-breeds, of course.” John put his tricorne on. “Good day to you, gentlemen, Esther.

He and the two boys were halfway to the door when he turned and handed the deerskin pouch full of money to Cormac. “Here, carry this. You may as well be useful for something.”

When they arrived at the big house, there were only sixteen pounds and five shillings in the pouch, a pound and six shillings shy of the amount Edward Taylor had said belonged to Ephraim Hale.

Quent knew instantly that John had taken the coins before he gave Cormac the money to carry. He tried to tell his father, but Ephraim wouldn’t listen. And John just laughed when Quent confronted him. His mother was his last hope.

Quent found her in the little room where they stored the household linen. It was right next to the woodshed where Ephraim had taken Cormac.

“Cormac didn’t do it,” he blurted out. “He didn’t steal Father’s money, John did. He gave Corm the pouch to hold just so he could get him in trouble when we got home.”

Lorene was standing with her back to him, holding a stack of carefully folded kitchen cloths to her face.

“Mama, do you hear me? Please, Mama, you’ve got to—”

“Hush, Quent. I hear you.” Lorene turned and set the stack of cloths on the table. She was breathing with some difficulty and her cheeks were bright pink. The flush extended down her neck to the exposed skin above her breasts.

They both heard the sound of Ephraim’s razor strop whistling through the air and thudding softly against flesh. Quent winced. “Mama, Cormac didn’t do it.”