Shadowbrook (78 page)

MONDAY, AUGUST 5, 1758
QUÉBEC LOWER TOWN

The Maria bell of the Monastery of the Poor Clares tolled in mourning. Nicole pulled and released the rope with careful concentration, all the while saying the Miserere, uniting her spirit with those of Dear Abbess and her sisters praying in the choir.

Louisbourg had fallen. Almost as terrible, the brave French soldiers who defended the great fort had been refused the honors of war by the English. They were to be sent to England as prisoners of war, and the eight thousand women and children and civilian men who had lived behind the walls of the citadel were being deported to France. “But
ma Mère,
who has ever heard of such a thing?” Soeur Angelique’s eyes were wide with horror when she heard the news at the afternoon’s recreation. “Why send away the people who did not fight? That is not done.”

“It is done by the English.” Mère Marie Rose was embroidering. Even during the day’s hour of relative freedom no Poor Clare sat with idle hands. “Just as they banished the Acadians. At least these poor people of Louisbourg are sent home to France, not delivered to the American colonies where they must live among heretics and be little better than slaves.”

“The Acadians are English subjects.” Nicole had ventured the explanation tentatively. Did they think her any less loyal to the French cause, the Catholic cause, because of her English father? “I do not defend what was done. Never. But the English
could not send the Acadians to France because they were not supposed to be French any longer.”

“
Les Anglais
are beasts.” Soeur Françoise, who seldom raised her voice above a whisper, practically shouted the words. “
Cochons!
Pigs! Every one of them.”

Not my Red Bear, Nicole thought. But these stories of the American rangers who fight with the redcoats and the militia, who whoop like Indians when they kill and take scalps like Indians … Is my Red Bear among them? That night beside the fire in the Shawnee camp, when he danced and went off with a squaw into the woods, he was entirely Indian. But with me, in Shoshanaya’s glade … She bent forward, plying her darning needle with ferocity and letting her veil fall forward to hide her burning cheeks. Forgive me,
mon Dieu,
forgive my wicked distractions. “Is any explanation made for sending the civilians to France,
ma Mère?
Do we perhaps know if this is some tactic of the war?”

Clever, Mère Marie Rose thought, just as Père Antoine said. Almost too clever to be a nun. What do I see in your eyes,
ma petite Soeur?
Something, I think, that is not in the eyes of the rest of us. “We are told nothing. Perhaps they wish to empty all Canada of the French.”

Then she sent Nicole to toll the Maria bell in memory of the passing of the souls of the brave French soldiers who died defending Louisbourg, and for the misery of the survivors.

Pull on the rope slowly and with total attention. Remember, ringing the bell is an act of prayer. Bend your knees as you take it down. Release it with equal care. And because you toll not victory but defeat, wait for two strophes of the psalm before you ring it again.

Miserere me, Deus.
Have mercy on me, O God.
Quoniam conculcavit me homo.
For man has trodden me underfoot.

To empty Canada of all the French had been Cormac Shea’s plan. She’d heard him and Quent arguing about it once. And later Monsieur Shea had explained it to her, when Quent wasn’t around to contradict him. “It’s the only way there will ever be peace in the New World. Canada for the Indians; the rest of it, the part the English have now, the whites can keep.”

“It seems harsh, Monsieur Shea. On the Canadians. Is there no—”

“Not as harsh as the alternative. The only other way the whites can live here without being constantly at war with the red men is to kill every Indian they can find.”

Conculcaverunt me inimici mei tota die.
My enemies have trodden on me all day long.
Quoniam multi balantes adversum me.
For they are many that make war against me.

Before summer’s end the bells of Canada tolled again in mourning, this time for the fall of Fort Frontenac on Lake Ontario. The chain of forts that stretched
from Canada to the Ohio Country was broken. “Protestant heretics can now overrun the Ohio Country,” Marie Rose said, her eyes filled with tears. “How will the poor Indians ever hear the true Gospel of Christ and His Catholic Church?”

If they live at all, Nicole thought. If, as Monsieur Shea said, the white men do not find it necessary to kill every Indian they find.

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 23, 1758
A MEADOW NEAR THE VILLAGE OF EASTON IN PENNSYLVANIA COLONY

It was a gray, overcast day following three weeks of unrelenting rain, but at least this afternoon was dry. Cold, though. Corm had wrapped a blanket over his buckskins and stood by himself at the fringe of a large clearing in the eastern Allegheny foothills. He was an outsider here, a Canadian and a Potawatomi. Neither group had any standing in this powwow.Not like Quent. In this place he was Uko Nyakwai, the legendary Ohio Country woodsman, much more than he was Kwashko, the adopted Potawatomi brave, or Quentin Hale, gentleman. Corm watched Quent go from group to group, speak a few words, and move on.

Use the Suckáuhodc to convince the
Anishinabeg
to fight with the English or stay neutral. Corm’s efforts with the Ottawa and the Huron and the Abenaki had been mostly of the stay-neutral variety. Quent was urging alliance.

Five hundred
Anishinabeg
from thirteen nations had gathered beneath trees whose wet leaves shimmered with the red and gold of autumn. The Indians, many chiefs in full and solemn ceremonial dress, competed with them for splendor. The Delaware sachems Teedyuscung and Pisquetomen, who was the brother of Shingas, sat together. Corm counted sixty of Teedyuscung’s braves lined up behind him. Pisquetomen had only half a dozen councillors, but all the authority, Corm figured. Months before, Quent had given the Súki bead carved with
pileewa,
the turkey, to Shingas; it was almost a certainty that for this meeting he’d have passed it to his brother. Pisquetomen was a civil chief, Shingas a war sachem. Now was the time for Pisquetomen. Maybe Shingas later.

The Iroquois had judged the meeting important enough to send chiefs of the individual tribes, rather than a single delegate to represent the Great Council of the Six Nations. Quent had already greeted Nichas of the Kahniankehaka, and the Seneca chief, Tagashata. Now he walked among the observer-delegates from the many small nations the Iroquois controlled. Corm identified Nanticoke, Tutelo, Chugnut, Minisink, Mahican …
Ayi!
Could even the snakes hold so many to whatever was agreed? Yes. Probably. They had been doing it for a very long time.
And now they had the power of
Eehsipana,
the racoon, and
Ayaapia,
the elk buck, to add to their authority.

He saw Quent press palms with a Nanticoke, then begin working his way toward the edge of the assembly. A tall white in the blue coat of the Virginia provincials stopped him and Corm recognized George Washington. Washington and Quent moved a bit to the side, speaking earnestly. After a time they parted and Quent hurried toward Corm. When he got close his face split in a huge grin. “I think—”

“—it’s going to be good,” Corm finished for him.

“How do you know that?”

“Because you’ve let your
Cmokman
spirit rise from your belly and mark your face.”

Quent chuckled, then grew serious. “Listen, you don’t think … It’s not just for the
Cmokmanuk,
or for Shadowbrook. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know that. What did your friend Washington have to say?”

“He’s getting married. A Martha someone. A widow with two children, not to mention a fine piece of land that just happens to abut his.”

“When’s the wedding to be?”

“In January. He’s resigning his commission and going to stand for a seat in the Virginia House of Burgesses.”

Corm started to say something, then stopped. “Teedyuscung’s turn,” he said, motioning to the chief who had walked to the center of the circle. “Could be we’re about to get to some real business.”

They had been on this meadow for five days. One harangue had followed another, but most had been of an almost ritual nature, the orators showing their prowess, vying with each other to catalog a list of grievances with which everyone was already familiar.
It is clear you white men have made this war. Why do you not fight in your Old World or on the sea? Why do you come and fight here in this World that is New to you, but Old to us?
In true
Anishinabeg
fashion all the tribes had put their best talkers first. The English had sat through speech after speech trying not to let their impatience show. Now it was time for those who wielded real power to make their ideas known.

Teedyuscung carried a string of wampum in his left hand. Slowly, with deliberate motions so everyone could count the number of turns, he wound it six times around his right wrist. Four turns had been the highest they’d seen so far. The Delaware chief was signaling that he had something to say of major importance.

“Uncles”—he was looking at the Iroquois chiefs who had conquered his Delaware so long before—“you may remember that you have placed my people at Wyomink and Shamokin.” Teedyuscung gestured to his right and left, indicating the two nearby valleys.

“Then sold the land out from under them,” Corm muttered.

“Good old snakes,” Quent said. “Always to be counted on. Listen, Washington told me—”

Corm put up a hand. One of the Iroquois, an Oneida, had risen while Teedyuscung was still standing. He too had made six loops of wampum. He spoke quickly, with many gestures. Corm wasn’t sure he’d understood. “Did he say what I think he said? That the Great Council will let the Delaware continue to live in those valleys?”

Quent’s Oneida was better, more practiced because of all the time he’d spent in these parts. “Yes, that’s exactly what he said.”

“But just letting them stay won’t be enough. That’s typical Iroquois arrogance. If the Delaware think the snakes can sell them out again whenever they want, it won’t—”

Quent put a hand on his arm. “Calm down. It’s not going to be like that this time. Wait.” A white man stood up and walked to the center of the circle. “He represents the Penns,” Quent whispered “The family.” The man began looping a string of wampum around his wrist. He got to six turns—matching Teedyuscung and the Oneida—then ostentatiously added a seventh.

“
Ayi!
He’d better have something to back that up.”

“He does. Both ears, Corm. It’s important.”

The white man nodded in the directions of the two speakers before him, Teedyuscung and the Oneida chief. “I have heard what has been said by my Indian brothers. I wish it to be known that I speak to them with the voice of the Penn brethren to whom the English king gave this land.”

There were impatient murmurings from all the Indians who had understood, joined by others as soon as the words had been translated for them.

“That’s not going to make them any happier,” Corm began. “You know—”

“Will you please shut your mouth and listen? He’s giving all the land west of the mountains to the Iroquois. Officially. On behalf of the Penn Family.”

“How do you—” Corm broke off. It didn’t matter how Quent knew; it was clearly what had happened. A number of the Iroquois stood up. They were obviously delighted, smiling and nodding.

“What about the Delaware?” Corm demanded. “Look at them. They seem ready to walk out.”

“Ssh … Here comes the best part. That’s Denny, the governor of Pennsylvania.”

Governor Denny started to speak, then realized he’d forgotten his wampum string. He looked around. An aide rushed forward with a rope of the tubular white beads, whispered something in the governor’s ear, then went back to his place. Denny began making loops of wampum around his wrist, his gestures
clumsy and unpracticed, but clear enough to be counted. Seven turns. He was saying his words were as important as those of the man who had just given the Iroquois a gift worth a king’s ransom. He faced the Delaware. They looked at him intently, waiting.

“I wish to tell our friends the Delaware that the chiefs and the people of Pennsylvania mean to kindle up again the old council fire in the city we call Philadelphia.”

Neither Teedyuscung nor Pisquetomen said anything, but the braves and councillors behind them began murmuring among themselves.

“We invite our friends the Delaware to send representatives to that Philadelphia fire,” Denny added.

There was a collective intake of breath as everyone,
Anishinabeg
and
Cmokmanuk,
realized he was offering to negotiate directly with the Delaware in future; their claim to this land in the Delaware Valley was being officially recognized by the whites. It was a dramatic change: for many years Pennsylvania had refused to negotiate with anyone other than the Great Council, meaning they saw the Delaware as subject to the Iroquois.

Pisquetomen sat cross-legged on the ground, in the front rank—but he turned his head so he could look at the snakes he despised, however many times he might call them his uncles. The Iroquois were staring straight ahead, making no objection to Denny’s words. Clearly they had known about the offer and given their consent, but that didn’t mean they could be trusted. Pisquetomen fingered his medicine bag and felt the outline of the blue-black Súki bead carved with
pileewa,
the turkey.

Nichas the Kahniankehaka sachem was also seated in the front rank, and he also wore a medicine bag. He touched it, his gaze meeting that of Pisquetomen the Delaware. Uko Nyakwai said the Kahniankehaka had accepted
eehsipana,
the raccoon. The Red Bear was always truthful. Nichas inclined his head. The gesture was barely perceptible. Probably no one else had seen it, but Pisquetomen had no doubt of its meaning. The Great Council was promising to honor the agreements made here, swearing to do so by the power of the ancient beads that carried the spirits of all their ancestors.