Shadowbrook (76 page)

“Doesn’t sound like it’s much use being king.”

“Sometimes, no, it isn’t. George’s people come from Hanover over in Germany, and France is at war with Hanover as well as us. The king always wants the main British military effort to go toward helping his relatives in Europe rather than us colonials here in America.”

“I take it Pitt doesn’t agree.”

“Absolutely not. He’s got this idea that what matters is building an empire,
America and India. Thinks if England loses either to France, Great Britain’s as good as finished. A toothless lion, he said. “But that need not happen, Mr. Hale. I can save this country and I must, because no one else will.’ That’s what he told me, Corm.”

“Is it true?”

“I’ve no idea about India, but here … Yes, I think it is true.” Quent grubbed about until he came up with a handful of small stones. “Look, this is how it’s to be.” He positioned three of the stones in a triangle on the earth between them. “Say this is Fort Duquesne down in the Ohio Country.” He pointed to the right bottom stone. “It guards the way to the rest of the French territory south and west.”

“Louisiana, you mean.” That was the only place Corm had ever heard of where people ate
kokotni.
If Marni were eating alligators, she had to be in Louisiana.

“Yes,” Quent agreed. “Louisiana. And all the land to the west the French claim. The key to their holding it is Fort Duquesne. If we take that, they’re finished.”

“Braddock already tried to take Fort Duquesne. We know how that came out.”

“Yes, but Braddock was sent over with fewer redcoats than he needed and told to make up his strength with colonials. That’s never going to work I told Pitt as much, but frankly he already knew. Massive force, that’s his plan. There’ll be so many of them to take Duquesne the French won’t stand a chance. Besides”—Quent looked at Corm, watching his reaction—“I hear it’s a lot more difficult for Onontio to get his war belts accepted by the
Anishinabeg.
You know anything about that?”

“Later,” Corm said. “Finish about Pitt first.”

“Fair enough. First thing to go will be Duquesne. We’ll take it with the biggest guns you ever saw, and overwhelming numbers of redcoats.”

“There’ll be some local help as well. Your old friend Washington, he’s raised a new regiment, the First Virginia. A force to be reckoned with, they tell me. Better than that ragtag bunch of farmers he had with him back in that cursed glen.”

Quent nodded. “We’re all a little wiser than we were four years ago. Pitt’s gotten the parliament in London to agree to help pay colonial soldiers a living wage. Washington can recruit real officers, men with some experience, for the First Virginia.” He pointed to one of the two stones that remained. “Second objective is Carillon.”

“The fort up on the French end of Bright Fish Water?”

Quent nodded.

“How did you get him to make that a major objective?”

“Ticonderoga is critical for the corridor between Canada and the Ohio Country. Take Carillon and you cut New France in half.”

And the fact that it was better not to have French forces five days’ march from
the Patent was simply a bonus. Well earned, Corm thought. Quent deserves something for all he’s done for the English. “Same plan?”

“Same plan.” Quent chuckled. “I just came from the Nag’s Head. There’s so much custom old man Groesbeck’s like a pig with his snout in the swill. When he sees what’s coming he may die of joy.” Quent swept the second stone away with the edge of his palm. “Thousands of redcoats, and we turn the French out of Ticonderoga. We’ll be in complete control of everything between Lake Champlain and Bright Fish Water.”

“The Huron,” Corm said quietly, “they call that stretch between the lakes the Great Warpath. Because it led them to their enemies.”

“Call it what you will, once we take Carillon, it’s ours.”

Corm pointed to the single stone that remained. “And what’s this?”

“Two things, actually,” Quent said. “Louisbourg and Québec. Force,” he said quietly. “Irresistible force. The whole bloody English navy if that’s what it takes.” He scooped up the remaining stone and flung it into the trees. “Québec falls and Canada is ours.”

Corm stiffened. He felt a sudden chill despite the mild night. “Ours? Do you mean that Canada will be British?”

“Only in a manner of speaking,” Quent said. “I didn’t mean to imply the English
Cmokmanuk
would replace the French. I told him, Corm. Everything you’ve always said, everything we agreed on. The
Amshinabeg
get Canada and the
Cmokmanuk
stay down here on the land the English hold now. In return, peace between us and the Indians, no more frontier harassment, no raids. We draw a line and everybody stays on their own side.”

“I know you understand,” Corm said softly. “What I’m waiting to hear is that your friend Pitt also understands.”

“Pitt’s a friend to himself only, I suspect. But about Canada … We talked four evenings running, about the war, everything.” In the Palace of Westminster Quent had been led to Pitt’s private apartments through the most splendid corridors he’d ever seen, lit with an uncountable number of candles, alive with Turkey carpets glowing in colors he’d never imagined. “That last night, we talked of nothing but the
Anishinabeg.
He wanted to know all about them, to understand their ways. What happened up at Fort William Henry, it concentrated his mind—”

“—on the fact that Indians are bloodthirsty savages,” Corm broke in, suddenly fierce. “That’s what the whites are saying. Not just in New York and the rest of the colonies. The French are equally as ignorant. Montcalm wrings his hands and pretends not to understand how the ‘savages’ could have gone back on his word. His word, mind you, not theirs.”

“I admit, it was pretty hard for them to understand in London as well. But as for Pitt … He’s not a closed-minded man, Corm. I think he understood in the end. I really do.”

“And he agrees? We’ll have Canada?”

It was maybe the first time Quent had heard Corm align himself entirely to his Indian heritage. “He agrees that whites and Indians have to find a way to live together if there’s ever to be peace and prosperity in America.”

“Did he give you his word Quent?”

“He promised me he’d try, Corm. He swore he’d bend every effort to make it happen. It was the best I could get, so I took it.”

It was the same thing Pontiac had said when he accepted the Súki bead with the spider carving, that he’d try.
Cmokman
or
Anishinabeg,
sometimes to try was the only promise possible. “There’s something else.” Corm found another stone and held it out in his open palm. “This attack on Québec. Presuming the English warships get close enough to do any damage, it’s the Lower Town they’ll smash first. You given that any thought?”

Quent nodded. “I have. That convent is not a hundred paces from the harbor.”

“Closer, maybe.”

“Ahaw.”
It was the first time either of them had slipped into Potawatomi.
“Wijewe,”
Quent said. “I got Pitt’s word on that as well. When the time comes to take Québec, I’ll be there.”

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 5, 1757
SHADOWBROOK

John must die.
Not now, though. The night he confronted his brother about the exchange of Shadowbrook for cane land, Jeremiah had said:
Ain’t no good going to come from spilling your brother’s blood. Mark o’ Cain that be. Don’t you do it. For your Mama’s sake.
The mark of Cain didn’t bother Quent; John had to die to preserve the Patent.
John must die.
But about his mother, Jeremiah was right.

Lorene sat at her bedroom window the way she did so often these days; Taba sat on the floor not far from her, mending a piece of fine lace with the careful little stitches her mistress had taught her. Lorene looked out and there was Quent, walking up the path.

Lorene flew down the stairs and out the door, rushing to meet him before he got to the house—only partly because she hadn’t seen her youngest boy for such a long time.

“Where’s John?” he asked. If he came on his brother suddenly, without being
prepared, he wasn’t sure what he would do. John must die, but he didn’t want it to be today, like this, with his mother watching.

“He’s not here. Quentin, I’ve so much to tell you. There’s so much you don’t know.” Her blue eyes were dark with anxiety, and her chest rose and fell with quick, sharp breaths.

“Calm yourself, Madam. I know more than you think I saw Uncle Bede before I went to see the governor.”

“That vicious, evil man. That snake. I wish—”

“Calm yourself,” Quent said again. “I’ve dealt with James De Lancey.”

“Dealt with him how? He has the deed to the Patent, Quent. The De Lanceys played John for a fool. Oliver sold the deed and lien to Hamish Stewart, but Hamish is dead, and the Lord alone knows how long it will be before the De Lanceys’ claim—”

“No. They won’t claim anything.” Quent drew her to the wooden seat that circled the big chestnut tree in front of the house. The unseasonable autumn warmth had changed to the damp cold more normal for the first days of November. Quent opened his bag and pulled out the green velvet coat and put it around his mother’s shoulders.

She drew it close. “Is this yours, Quent? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen it.”

“It’s mine. Bespoke in New York City. So I could look like a diplomat in London.”

“Indeed.” She was examining the stitches on the lapel. “It’s fine work I expect our New York tailors did you proud, even in London.”

“Proud enough.” He’d felt like a country cousin despite the clothes. Not one person he met was as big as he was, for a start. And not just the accents different, some of the words as well. We’re growing farther and farther apart, American Englishmen and English Englishmen. God knows how it will turn out. “Madam, listen, there’s much to say and not much time. Is John likely to interrupt us?”

“Not for some hours. He’s gone to the sawmill to talk to Ely about timber we need for repairing the stable, and to have Sally Robin look at his wound. Uncle Bede told you—”

“Everything. Don’t fret. How is Ely?”

“Well. He’s to be married again. The Widow Krieger from Albany.”

“Good, that’s a fine thing.” Quent remembered Ely’s daughter and her husband and the tiny baby, and the way the sawyer had looked as he stood over their bodies. “The sawmill must be lonely after so much loss. And the Frankels, how are they?”

“Very well. But John thinks perhaps we won’t have enough work to keep the gristmill and the sugarhouse busy next year. He says we may not be able to plant as much or trade as much and—”

“John couldn’t be more wrong. About that like so much else. Madam, you’re shivering. Come, let’s go inside.”

It was well past the dinner hour but Kitchen Hannah plied him with johnnycakes and biscuits, and ham and parsnips and potatoes baked into a pie. “Still warm enough,” she told him. “Don’t you be leaving any, saying it be too chilled to be good.”

“It’s delicious, Hannah. Thank you.” When she had gone, he pulled his chair closer to Lorene’s. “Madam, I want to be gone before John gets back. Else …”

“I know. But he’s your bro—”

“We haven’t time to talk about John. Just listen. You must see to it that every field is planted in the spring. Grow plenty of wheat, never mind what John says, and take in as much sugar as you can beg or buy. Tell Moses Frankel he’s to make rum with the lot. As many jugs as they can manage. And don’t send any more to Do Good than you must.”

“We’re doing less and less trade at Do Good. The Indians seem to be withdrawing from us. At least that’s what Esther Snowberry says and she never lies.”

“Give Esther my warm regards. And don’t worry about the Kahniankehaka, they’ve got their own concerns at the moment.” Some months back, before he went to London, Quent himself had given a Súki bead to Scarouady. He had accepted
ayaapia,
the elk buck, on behalf of the entire Iroquois Confederation. Just to be sure, Quent had also given
eesipana,
the racoon, to the Kahniankehaka. “Just do as I say, Madam.” Quent dropped his voice, speaking in a low and urgent tone. “Next summer, everywhere in the province but particularly here, will be teeming with redcoats. More than you’ve ever seen, more than you can imagine. They’ll need to be fed and supplied with drink and housed. You must have a quiet word with Ely and leave John out of it if you can. Tell Ely he’s to cut and plank as much timber as possible over the winter. There will be barracks needed. The wood to build them can be sold from Shadowbrook.”

“Quent, I do not doubt that you know things about London’s plans, but if we can indeed turn all this profit, what good will it do? The De Lanceys—”

“James and Oliver De Lancey will share in our profits, Madam. But not to any undue extent.”

“No, you don’t understand. John made everything over as part of some mad scheme to get cane land. With Hamish Stewart dead it must be the De Lanceys who own the Patent. John says no, that with Hamish dead it’s reverted to him, but—”

“John is right.” The words were bitter in his mouth. Everything he’d done had given the Patent back to his brother.
John must die.