Original Death (37 page)

Tushcona stepped before Conawago. “The posts still bind those who died at them. I watched a Nipmuc warrior die at the second post on the north side.”

Conawago hesitated. “Surely those of the Council should—”

“No. You are the chosen ones.” She handed an ax to Duncan. “You two shall release the first ghosts to the other side. They will let the old ones there know you have arrived to make good on your word, tell them you are coming to stop the killing of the gods.”

The posts were thick, but the old wood was brittle and their blades sank deep. As Conawago and Duncan alternated their swings, the old Nipmuc chanted, with a phrase on each stroke. “We are coming,” he said with the first swing, then, “do not die,” with the second. “Do not forget us,” he said with the third, then he repeated the words, over and over, his determination growing fiercer with each bite of the ax. Whether he was speaking to the lost children or the fading spirits Duncan was not certain. He joined in the chant.

They had the first post down in minutes. When they had leveled four posts, the elders lit a fire at the center of the slaveyard and rolled the posts
into it. After each of the elders had helped cut down a post, they took up positions at the fire, throwing tobacco in it and singing the songs that called for the spirits to take notice. They had taken down nearly half the posts when Woolford appeared, taking an ax from a weary Conawago.

Duncan had the sense that his ax was growing lighter as they leveled the posts. Ishmael exclaimed with joy as a meteor shot overhead. He became aware that all of them, including Woolford as he swung the heavy blade, were singing a new chant, a spirit chant used by warriors. Not for the first time on their strange journey Duncan felt as if he were caught inside some ancient myth of the tribes. He paused and looked at Hetty and Tushcona at the fire, sparks flying around their heads, then Conawago, who swung his ax again, looking more like a fighter than the gentle philosopher Duncan knew him to be. This was how the old tribesmen fought their wars.

They were only done, Tushcona insisted, when every post was cut and burned. It was arduous work, and by the time they were finished Duncan felt as if he had felled an entire forest. He collapsed beside Conawago by the fire. The soaring flames and singsong chant were hypnotic.

He was not certain if he dozed off, but Conawago's touch on his knee brought him back to full consciousness. The sky had lightened to a dull grey, enough to illuminate the crest of the low ridge. As he followed Conawago's gaze, his heart leapt into his throat. For a moment he was certain he was looking at a line of ghosts staring down at them from the ridge. But then the figures began to descend the slope in a line of attack, shoving a frightened Kassawaya before them. They were vengeful warriors and were ready for battle.

Chapter Thirteen

W
oolford grabbed his rifle. “Stay with Conawago!” he desperately whispered before darting into the shadows. Duncan reached for his own rifle.

“No!” came Conawago's quick command. “Caughnawags.”

The warning did little to dispel Duncan's fear. The Caughnawags were the northern Mohawks, who had been converted by French Jesuits in the prior century then exiled to Canada when the Iroquois fell into the British sphere of influence. They prayed to one God but gave homage to their war axes as well. They were the most numerous of France's allies on the northern frontier and second only to the Hurons in their reputation for ferocity. They did not consider themselves part of the Iroquois League, for they were French Indians, and those of the League were British Indians. For decades they had led raids deep into British territory, including the infamous massacre at Deerfield, in the Massachusetts colony.

Duncan struggled against his impulse to grab his weapon as the enemy closed around them. Each warrior carried a musket, though they kept the barrels down as they surrounded those at the fire.

“They spoke to me in Mohawk,” Kass groused, glancing at Sagatchie. She was obviously shamed by her capture.

“Because they
are
Mohawk,” said Custaloga, his eyes on a stern middle-aged warrior wearing a sash of skunk pelts. “Because the same blood flows in their veins and ours.”

The warrior with the fur sash stepped forward. “You have made good use of the wood here,” he declared in a deep slow voice.

Duncan realized the man was offering support for their night's work, although his sober expression gave no hint of friendship.

Custaloga offered a tentative smile. “Our northern relatives sometimes recover captives and bring them back to us,” he said to Duncan, though loudly enough for all to hear.

The chieftain in the black-and-white fur shrugged. “The Hurons and Abenaki will be furious.”

Custaloga shrugged back. “Chief Tatamy, you and I know that Mohawks do not wage war on women and children.”

The stranger called Tatamy stared at Custaloga with a stony expression, as if to rebuke him. His gaze shifted to Ishmael as the boy stepped in front of Conawago, holding a stick like a club, and a weary smile flickered on his weathered face. “Mohawks do not wage war on women and children,” he agreed.

“Then you will help us recover the five lost children of the Council,” Duncan interjected. The moment the words left his tongue, he knew they had been too hasty. The Iroquois had not even begun the rituals of hospitality.

Tatamy frowned his disapproval.

“This person is Duncan McCallum,” Conawago apologized as he gestured to Duncan. “A wretched Scot who is still learning the ways of true humans.”

The chieftain shook his head, expressing his own regret, then sighed and gestured to several warriors standing behind him. “If you would share your fire,” he said to the elders, “then we would share our fish.” The warriors stepped forward, extending vines strung with huge trout.

As the fish were cleaned and spitted for roasting, Custaloga and Tatamy spoke of the difficulties of their respective journeys and offered
each other water to wash away the grime of the trail. It was a version of the Edge of the Woods ceremony, a cornerstone of Iroquois diplomacy, in which those who met at the end of a journey offered to clear the soil of travel and extract the thorns of difficult trails. The two chieftains then offered gourds of fresh water for each of the other's party to drink.

When he finished, Custaloga stood with his gourd before Tatamy. “You would refuse me the honor of treating with all your warriors?” he asked pointedly.

Tatamy worked his jaw, clearly struggling for a moment, then turned toward the ridge and gave the call of a meadowlark. Two men rose up from the shadows and began descending the ridge. They had not covered half the distance to the fire before a third figure darted down from the field of boulders and disappeared over the ridge. The two chieftains were letting Woolford flee. The presence of the ranger captain, who fought bitterly with Caughnawags in the field, would have been an awkward distraction to the business of their makeshift council.

The sharing of the fish and the remaining grapes retrieved from the abbey erased all tension. The Caughnawags and those who lived in Onondaga Castle might be enemies, but they were also family. Soon several were speaking of common relatives. In times of peace, Duncan learned, Mohawks on one side of the Saint Lawrence would often take spouses from among the other. The northern warriors, many of whom wore crosses around their necks beside their spirit amulets, treated the Iroquois elders with wary deference.

At last Tatamy rose and conferred with several of his men. “We will now go to the stone castle,” he announced, gesturing Custaloga toward the abbey, as his men dispersed toward either side of the island to keep watch. Conawago waited until the two chieftains were nearly at the crest of the ridge before motioning for Duncan to follow with him. The two chieftains were already in the main chapel when Duncan and the old Nipmuc reached them. Tatamy was kneeling before the battered altar. When he rose, his face held more worry than anger.

He looked to Duncan with challenge in his eyes. “Say the words,” he said.

“I have come to find five children.”

Tatamy looked at him without expression. “Say the words,” he repeated.

Uncertain, Duncan looked over the chieftain's shoulder to the writing on the wall. “
Gloria Patri et Filio et Spiritui Sancto
.” He read the first line of the prayer, then continued with the unwritten remainder, still in Latin. The northern chieftain closed his eyes to listen better, as if the words transported him to another, more harmonious time.

“English,” Tatamy said when he finished.

“Glory be to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” Duncan recited.

“
Français
,” the chieftain pressed.

When Duncan spoke the French words, then offered them in Gaelic, there was more curiosity in Tatamy's eyes than challenge. “My mother,” the chief observed in a distant tone, “always said there must be a different god for each language.” He stepped forward and abruptly pulled down the shoulder of Duncan's jerkin, exposing the top of the dawnchaser tattoo on his shoulder. “You collect gods like beads, McCallum.”

“My mother taught me that each man must take his own god into his heart. A strong man knows it does no harm to his god to respect that of another.”

Tatamy stared impassively. “Do you think you will patch things on the other side by tricking the gods?”

“Those who seek to play tricks with gods do not deserve their protection.”

Tatamy cocked his head at Duncan but offered no reply.

“But sometimes I wonder,” Duncan added, “if it may be the gods who play tricks on us. Making good men kill each other because of the color of the flag they stand under.”

Tatamy frowned and walked along the religious murals on the wall before turning back to Duncan. “The men I will take you to will probably kill you. They kill a spy almost once a week,” he explained in a matter-of-fact
tone. “Hang him. Shoot him by a wall. In the winter they like to tie a rock to him and drop him through a hole in the ice over the river. It has become something of a sport to the French officers and the Huron chiefs.”

“I will not go the French army.”

Tatamy grinned. “But our officers are much prettier than yours. Even their monks wear lace. And despite the fall of Quebec, they are still convinced they will be the victors.”

The meaning of the warrior's words slowly sank in. “You're saying the half-king is already with them or soon will be. I will not expose my companions to the wrath of the French or the half-king,” Duncan said.

“It is your choice,” Tatamy said, and with nods to Custaloga and Conawago he took his leave. As he reached the door he turned and tossed something shiny to Duncan.

Duncan stared, struck dumb, at the coin he caught. In his hand was a Spanish dollar stamped with the broad arrow symbol of the British army.

MONTREAL'S LONG OUTER wall stretched for nearly a mile along the river, punctuated at regular intervals by cannon barrels. A surprising number of steeples reached above the wall, reminding Duncan of towns he had seen in the low countries of Europe.

Any lingering hostility had gone from Tatamy after he had spent hours speaking with the Iroquois elders. Now he conducted them into the enemy city with the air of a stealthy warrior.

“Hospital, outpost barracks, fur depot,” Tatamy explained with quick gestures as they glided past a group of stout buildings situated near the water, outside the western end of the fortress. The water gates along the riverbank were scenes of intense activity as boats of stores were unloaded, watched over by stern sentinels in the bleached wool frocks of French infantry or militia in woodland dress. Artillerymen were firing cannons in long-ranging shots to calibrate their balls and powder. Duncan's gut clenched with every shot.

“Any language but English,” Conawago warned as they beached their canoes and Duncan donned the soft wool foraging cap tossed to him by Tatamy. Most of the chieftain's men had parted company before the portage around the falls miles above Montreal, but the half-dozen who remained flanked their small party as Tatamy led them through one of the gates guarded by militia, who wore caps matching that of Duncan.

The town was a thriving mercantile center. Rich convoys of fur-laden canoes from the West and North had been arriving for decades. The streets hummed with activity of merchants and craftsmen. A cobbler worked at his bench before the open door of his shop. Shelves of pewter lined the window of a shop with a huge wooden candlestick for its sign. The size and affluence of the buildings he saw matched many he had seen in New York and Philadelphia, though the great stone structure near the town center was larger than any he had seen in the British colonies. Dogs played with scraps of fur. Aged women, both of the tribes and of the French, hawked baskets, apples, fish, and crocks of syrup, crying out their wares. Along a stone wall, half a dozen old, frail-looking Indian men and women dressed in little more than rags held out bark containers, or just leathery palms, in search of alms. As they rounded the corner Kass hesitated, then retreated to pull Sagatchie away as he stared at the beggars. Duncan paused as he realized Hetty and the hell dog were settling along the wall at the end of the line of beggars. She shook her head adamantly when Duncan gestured her on.