Council of Fire Read online

  Messier let the sentence trail off and said nothing further. The words seemed to echo for Boscawen, drifting beyond the parapet to be drowned by the crashing of the waves on the rocks below.

  Chapter 37

  Those kings are now beyond the edge of the world

  Northern New York

  Montcalm had always kept an important lesson in mind when dealing with the people. If they were idle, he knew, there would be trouble; this was especially important if they were also frightened.

  The refugees from Upper Canada, though few in number, had transmitted their fear to the civilians on the river; rumors—and evidence—of the hostility of the unknown forces upriver had made everyone scared. Fortunately, recent events had offered a solution. One of Bigot’s many storehouses yielded a few hundred stands of arms; many residents of New France had been soldiers, and were eager to take an active role, rather than just waiting for some new horror to arrive.

  It wasn’t much. Truthfully, it wasn’t enough—perhaps five hundred new recruits to supplement the roughly three hundred professional soldiers under Montcalm’s command that Vaudreuil was willing to let him take out of the province. Montcalm was not willing to engage in a battle of wills with the governor, at least until he was able—figuratively or literally—to throw Bigot over a cliff. So, the troupes de la marine and most of the regulars stayed behind to defend against the English, the Indians, or whatever was lurking to the west in the inchoate, mysterious world that had come into existence with the comet’s transit.

  Overall, what he was given was a good enough force to take a native “castle,” or undertake a punitive raid—but not sufficient to march on Albany or Boston or to retake Fort Duquesne (though there was a well-confirmed rumor that scarcely any of the new British works remained, some new unearthly force having reduced them).

  It was, however, enough for a demonstration.

  In the late afternoon sunlight, the lake was placid and beautiful, the long, flat-bottomed bateaux moved with an easy grace through the water, each carrying a number of French soldiers—regular or recruited—and a Seneca guide. It reminded Montcalm of the campaign two years ago, when he had led an expedition that originally led to the siege of Fort William Henry. That had been memorable in a way that the viscount would prefer to forget. After his subordinate, Bourlamanque, had obtained the surrender of the garrison and arranged terms under which they were to withdraw further south, their Indian allies had carried out a terrible massacre that he had not been able to prevent.

  As he watched the tree-lined shore pass slowly by, Montcalm wondered if there were ghosts of those men—and women, for there had been civilians and camp-followers murdered as well—lurking in those woods, summoned by the world’s change.

  If they were there, he could not see them.

  There was no Fort William Henry to besiege, and Carillon was abandoned—and, if it was to be believed, occupied by the ghosts of Abercromby’s Highlanders. Montcalm disembarked his force on the west bank of Lac du Saint-Sacrement, ordering his subordinate commanders to establish a fortified camp. By sunset it had been laid out, and Montcalm—whose tent had been placed at the brow of a hill overlooking the deployment—was ready to meet with his officers. D’Egremont, whom he had chosen as his aide, leaving Lévis behind in Québec, was waiting for him as he reached his accommodations.

  “The army looks to have sorted itself properly, Monsieur.”

  Montcalm snorted. “To call this group an army stretches the definition to say the least. Most are not soldiers, and there is no rival army they could possibly oppose. But . . . yes, the camp is properly laid out.”

  D’Egremont looked at the sky, which was slowly darkening following a brilliant summer sunset. “Do you plan to move toward Carillon?”

  “I see no point, based on your report, D’Egremont. I am primarily interested in the natives—” Montcalm allowed his eyes to drift upward as well. “And possibly where the English are.”

  “You want to fight the English? With . . . ” he gestured toward the camp. “With them?”

  “Fight? No. I don’t think that’s in order. Most of the English forces were in or near New York, unless they’ve undertaken a summer campaign. If so, it would be good to know.”

  “Thus—a demonstration, Monsieur.”

  “Just so.”

  If any among Montcalm’s expedition were expecting to march the following day, they were disappointed. The habitants who had joined the military of New France were subjected to drill and inspection—marching and manual of arms, sweating in the bright sun at lake’s edge.

  The army—such as it was—exercised for two days, which was—in Montcalm’s expert view—in no way sufficient to make these citizens into soldiers. On the third morning after their arrival, a runner arrived at Montcalm’s tent to report a visitor.

  “What sort of visitors?”

  “A group of Indians, Monsieur,” the young officer said. He sounded either disdainful or wary—he was a regular soldier from the corps de marine, only recently arrived in New France.

  “How many?”

  “Five,” the man answered.

  “That seems well short of an invading force. I will receive them.”

  “They are armed, Monsieur.”

  “I am not surprised. If that troubles you, Lieutenant, order a guard to escort them to my presence.”

  The young officer seemed reassured by the idea; he nodded and withdrew. A few minutes later, two natives were admitted into Montcalm’s tent: a very tall older man, clearly an elder of some sort, and a younger brave who stood next to him, showing no particular deference to his elder. The other three presumably remained outside.

  “Be welcome, Brothers,” Montcalm said. “How may I help you today?”

  “We are surprised to find you here, servant of the Onontio,” the older Indian said. “What is your purpose?”

  “This is land my king claims,” Montcalm answered. “With respect, I do not wish to explain myself to you. But I do not mean you or your tribe any harm.”

  “Which is why you come so well-armed.”

  Montcalm ignored the sharp retort and said, “To whom do I have the honor of speaking?”

  “I am Skenadoa, a chief of the Oneida. This is Joseph of the Wolf clan of the Mohawk.”

  “Then I might ask, Chief Skenadoa: what is your purpose?”

  “You were seen,” Skenadoa said. He glanced at Joseph, who had fixed his attention on Montcalm—rather disturbingly, the French commander thought. The young native had a steady, piercing gaze.

  “We made no attempt to conceal ourselves.”

  “There is no army of the king of England to fight,” Skenadoa said. “And you say you do not threaten us. Are you looking for Maneto in the Andia-ta-roc-te?” he gestured in the direction of the lake. “He is not there, at least not yet.”

  “We know where Maneto is, or rather where he was,” Montcalm answered levelly. “We do not fear him.”

  “White men have much to fear,” Skenadoa said. “For all the wrongs done to our people, the spirits of the land will not be moved to protect them.”

  “Yes,” Montcalm said, waving his hand. “And we are told that the trees are angry as well. Tell me, Chief: are your people looking to fight mine, either on your own or in the employ of the king of England? The People of the Longhouse—any of them—were not always enemies of my king.”

  “The two white kings each held a hatchet in their hands; but those kings are now beyond the edge of the world. Are you still carrying war in your heart, servant of the Onontio? That is what I am here to learn.”

  “And report.”

  “Yes, that as well,” Skenadoa said.

  “To whom? To General Amherst?”

  “We do not serve that general,” Skenadoa said. “We will tell your answer to our people and our friends.”

  “Our enemies are things like Maneto,” the younger native said, the first words he had spoken. It earned him a sharp look from Chief Skenadoa, b
ut the older native made no move to contradict him.

  “And not the French.”

  “And not the French,” Joseph said. “And not the English either. The things being sent are evil to both our people and yours, red and white. They want to destroy you utterly. But these things have evil designs for us as well. Make no mistake.”

  “Interesting,” Montcalm said. He folded his hands in his lap. “There are some among your people who consider white men a great evil. They would not weep if we were destroyed utterly. But for every wrong committed by whites, there are massacres and outrages committed by natives. Finding trust between us is a difficult thing.”

  “You speak truly,” Skenadoa said. “Few whites have such wisdom.”

  “Thank you for the compliment,” Montcalm said. “Few natives are so forthright.”

  “We are always straight in speech. Your ears are often crooked.”

  It sounded like less of a compliment, but Montcalm was not prepared to take it as an insult.

  “Let me be straight in speech,” Montcalm said after a moment. “If we agree that the enemies of both my king and the king of England are these—creatures—what would you have of me? I will not submit to any other authority.”

  “I cannot speak for the prince,” Skenadoa said.

  “What prince?”

  “Prince Edward, who shall be King Edward,” the native answered. “Since this is all the world now.”

  Montcalm had been laconic up to this point, even given the native man’s insolence. But this made him sit forward. “Edward. The grandson of King George of England? The younger son?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s here in North America?—Of course, he must have been in the British fleet. Does that mean they survived after all?” Then why have I not heard of this before now?

  “Only a few of the great ships. He was aboard one of them, so it is said.”

  “And you are sure this is a prince of the blood.”

  “Yes,” Joseph said.

  Skenadoa looked aside at him for several moments, then returned his attention to Montcalm. “Yes. We are sure.”

  “Will you be returning to him?”

  “I will,” Skenadoa said. “Joseph will be traveling elsewhere.”

  “I will write a letter,” Montcalm said. “One of my officers will carry it to your prince—”

  “The prince,” Skenadoa interrupted.

  “He will carry it to the prince,” Montcalm said. He wasn’t sure why the distinction was being made but was content to follow the native’s lead. “Is this acceptable?”

  “If he is ready to leave very soon.”

  Montcalm stood. “I shall see to it.”

  Chapter 38

  When the world has changed, you need to change with it

  Logstown

  Kaintwakon knew that he disturbed Guyasuta at his own peril. The Seneca slept lightly, like a true warrior, with hatchet and dagger in close reach. The younger brave might be dead in a moment if the other man reacted too quickly, or because the world of dreams had not quite let go.

  Still, there was no other choice, and he entered Guyasuta’s sleeping chamber, intending to touch Guyasuta’s shoulder and then, if necessary, jump back.

  He was saved the need. Guyasuta was awake already, hatchet in hand, his pale eyes visible in the morning light coming past the tent-flap. Whatever woman had been sleeping beside him had already departed to her morning duties.

  Guyasuta looked annoyed and was not hiding it.

  “Brother,” Kaintwakon said, “you must come.”

  “What is it?”

  “Sganyodaiyo.”

  “What is wrong?”

  “He is raving. Shouting and flailing about. He may hurt himself.”

  Guyasuta stood, not letting go of his hatchet. “I cannot prevent him from hurting himself, Brother. Does he call for me?”

  “He does.”

  “Huh.” Guyasuta gestured, and Kaintwakon preceded him out of the tent. For just a moment the younger man had an uneasy feeling about turning his back on a man with a hatchet, but shrugged it off, and the two stepped into the morning heat.

  “When did this start?”

  Kaintwakon pointed at the sky, a little lower than where the sun stood. “He was shouting about the Oniate. One of the older braves wanted to bind him and stop up his mouth.”

  “Did he—”

  “No. Others kept him from it.”

  Sganyodaiyo’s house was as dimly lit as always, and even from the doorway they could hear moaning and muttering. They found their way to his sleeping-room and came face to face with Sganyodaiyo. Even in the dim firelight, Guyasuta could see that Sganyodaiyo’s eyes reflected nothing.

  “What has happened?”

  “Brother,” he said. “You are here.”

  Guyasuta did not answer. He glanced over his shoulder at Kaintwakon, who was immobilized by the scene.

  “What has happened, Brother Sganyodaiyo?”

  “Do you remember,” he answered, “when I showed you the power of the Great Spirit?” He bent down and picked up a drawstring bag and held it next to his face.

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  Sganyodaiyo emptied the bag at his feet. Three rough stone figures and a dried snakeskin fell to the floor; a circle of cloth drifted slowly after.

  “Someone, or something, killed Maneto. I cannot believe that the servants of the Onontio are that powerful, but it has happened.

  “Dagwanoeient. One of the Flying Heads was separated from the earth as it attacked the Longhouse at the Council Fire. The legends say that there is nothing mortal that can harm such a creature.

  “And then there are the Genonskwa.” Sganyodaiyo bent down and gently set the stone figures upright. “They destroyed the fort at the Forks, oh yes, they did!” He laughed, throwing his head back—and then stopped, squatting on his haunches, lowering his head to face the floor. “Something tore them apart and they returned to the earth. Even the Oniate were consumed by the darkness, at the gate of the enemy.”

  He covered his face with his hands. Guyasuta could not tell whether Sganyodaiyo was weeping.

  “What does the Great Spirit want us to do, my Brother?”

  “I don’t know,” Sganyodaiyo said, without looking up or removing his hands from his face. “I don’t know.”

  “No,” Guyasuta said, seizing Sganyodaiyo’s shoulder—

  And a burst of energy, a sheet of unburning flame, erupted from Sganyodaiyo, hurling Guyasuta back against Kaintwakon, almost knocking him off his feet. Sganyodaiyo himself was on his feet, his arms wide, his face twisted in anger and, possibly, ecstasy.

  “The Great Spirit is mighty,” Sganyodaiyo said. “He does not suffer his servant to be touched. He does not know you. He does not see you.”

  “He—”

  “You must come before him, Brother,” Sganyodaiyo said, cutting across Guyasuta. “It is time to set aside the Great Spirit’s second-hand tools and become one yourself.”

  “They are better armed than we are.”

  “They have never been weaker,” Sganyodaiyo replied. “The two nations of white men hate each other, and neither will ever again receive help from its home country, beyond the sundering barrier. You must strike now.”

  His voice had taken on a different timber, as if he was not speaking for himself, but rather someone—or something—was speaking for him.

  “Unless you are afraid.”

  Guyasuta looked from Kaintwakon to Sganyodaiyo. The younger brave had an expression of shock or even horror.

  “I am not afraid,” Guyasuta said. “You are walking a dangerous path, Sganyodaiyo.”

  “It has been dangerous for quite a long time, Brother,” he said, in the same disturbing voice. “If you find the need to strike me down, then I am ready. But it would be better for you to take your weapon in hand against the real enemy.”

  Sganyodaiyo turned his back and stretched his arms wide. He leaned his head forward, away from
Guyasuta, as if anticipating a blow.

  Land of the Five Nations

  D’Egremont had not expected to be moving through the primeval forest of America on foot with a middle-aged, inscrutable native; but he knew how to follow orders, and General Montcalm had dispatched him with a letter to an English prince. It would not surprise him if this was a trap—though he could not determine what value he might have as a hostage, or, indeed, a corpse.

  Skenadoa did not, in any case, intend him immediate harm, else the man would have attacked him as soon as they were out of sight of the French camp. The native was taciturn, just short of hostile, and spoke little as they followed a trail that D’Egremont could hardly discern.

  Skenadoa was of an indeterminate age, but D’Egremont would have guessed that he was in his late forties or early fifties, a mature middle-aged man by European standards. What constituted middle-aged for an Iroquois was beyond his own experience; for all he knew, Skenadoa was old enough to have appeared before the English Queen Anne half a century earlier. Still, though he was no longer young, he was possessed of an unflagging stamina as they traveled westward, neither summer heat nor rough terrain slowing them down.

  At sunset the native halted, finding a place for the two of them to camp. D’Egremont had spent considerable time in the wild during the past several months; his pack and even his choice of clothing reflected experience with overland travel. If Skenadoa was in any way disdainful of the Frenchman, he did not show it; and presently they had rigged a rough shelter and settled down with a simple meal.

  “What can you tell me about your prince?” D’Egremont asked after they had eaten.

  “He is not my prince,” Skenadoa answered. “Your chief Montcalm called him that as well.” He grunted. “Do I look like an Englishman to you?”

  “You do not call our king your lord,” D’Egremont answered. “I meant no offense, but I assumed—”