Council of Fire Read online

  “That the comet has changed everything—enabled powers and brought out all sorts of monsters? I’m sure we knew that, Your Highness.”

  “But not that the natives who oppose us have a shaman directing their supernatural activities. Not the powers of nature on their own—not because the stars are aligned but because there is someone in charge.”

  “We knew that there was a shaman accompanying Guyasuta,” Amherst said. “An informant told us this. What you are saying is that this shaman controls all the monsters.”

  Skenadoa crossed his arm. “He is a far more dangerous enemy than Chief Guyasuta. But he is still a man. A single musket shot or arrow can kill him.”

  “The warriors we fought yesterday wore shirts that deflected musket shots,” Amherst said.

  “Not on their heads,” Skenadoa said. “A good marksman could hit him there.” He let his arms fall to his sides. “I could hit him there.”

  Amherst looked at the Jo-Ge-Oh. “You can identify this shaman?”

  “Of course, white general.”

  “Then when the time comes, Skenadoa,” Amherst said, “you will have your chance.”

  “That is well,” Skenadoa answered. “Now let me inform you of my reason for coming.

  “The Council Fire has been relit. Those still loyal to the Covenant, who call the English friends, walk to war. Within a few days a force will be here—Oneida, Onondaga and Mohawks. We stand ready to fight against the betrayer of the Haudenosaunee.”

  “Indeed,” Amherst said. “And how are they armed?”

  “Some muskets,” Skenadoa said. “Bows as well.”

  “And tomahawks,” An-De-Le said, placing his hand on his own weapon.

  “Tomahawks as well.”

  Amherst glanced at Prince Edward. “I do not know if . . . ” he let the sentence drift off.

  “You doubt that the People of the Longhouse are brave enough?” An-De-Le said. “They might find that insulting.”

  “This is not a private quarrel between natives,” Amherst said. “We have already had one fight with these beings, and they have fearsome—unworldly—assistance.”

  “So do you,” Skenadoa said, gesturing toward the Jo-Ge-Oh. “We may understand this business better than you do, General.”

  “Of course, we do,” An-De-Le said with a smirk. “The whites walk different paths and listen to other songs. They know nothing of this, and I don’t think they want our help.”

  “I didn’t say that—” Amherst began.

  “We do not turn away your help,” Prince Edward said. “If the General pleases. It would be foolish to reject any ally. There is some need for a plan so we can work together. Are your warriors ready to follow as General Amherst directs?”

  “The war-chiefs would want to meet.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question.”

  “I will not answer for them,” Skenadoa said. “But I believe that they will, if they are given an honorable part in the battle.”

  Amherst appeared ready to give another sharp retort, but Prince Edward said, “Then when they arrive, send them here. I’m sure there will be plenty enough honorable parts to go around.”

  “You asked for me, General?”

  Wolfe took a long look at the colonial standing before him. There was a time—not too long in the past—when he would not have bothered to even speak to a colonial militiaman, much less summon him. All his experience in the colonies had made him disdainful and unwilling to even assign the title of “soldier” to such a man. But things had changed, particularly in the last few days. Whatever their training or discipline, it had been colonial militia who had faced the vanguard of the native army and driven it back. No general worth his salt would be so foolish as to let prejudice interfere with realism.

  “I have a question for you, Colonel Gridley. Who among your troops is the best shot? Perhaps Captain Revere?”

  “I would have to think about it, sir. Revere is a good man, and a fair shot with a musket, but there are country lads who are better. But to be honest, General, the best shot among colonial troops is probably Major Rogers.”

  “The—tracker? Woodsman? What does he call himself—a—”

  “Ranger, sir. The very one.”

  “And he’s a very good shot?”

  “I would venture to call him the best among colonial troops, General.” Gridley paused, and then asked, “may I inquire, sir, why you need a crack shot?”

  “We have learned that the various—things—that we might face are controlled by a single man. A—a shaman, if you please. It has been decided that if it is possible for us to kill this one individual, these things would no longer be at the command of the natives.”

  “I see, sir . . . but that begs the question who would then command them.”

  “Well, no one, I suppose.”

  “Excuse me for pointing out, sir, that if no one commands them, they might do as they please.”

  “Or they might go back where they came from.”

  “It seems like a risky business, begging the General’s pardon. Based on what I’ve heard, there are some fearsome things at this shaman’s command, and his control of them makes them dangerous to us—but without that command they might still be here.”

  “I have my orders, Gridley. And you have given me the information I desire. Dismissed.”

  Richard Gridley might have wanted to say something more, but he apparently thought better of it. He touched his hand to his cap and left the tent.

  Joseph ran sure-footed, following trail sign that led him southward toward New York. Molly wanted him to stay at Johnson Hall, but he was restless; he and Skenadoa each had a mission—the older man was bound for the whites’ army camp, he for the city, each bearing news of the movement of Guyasuta’s army.

  He felt much more in harmony with the forest now, recognizing the signs and placing his feet confidently on the paths. He saw other things as well—the movement of woodland creatures and . . . other features that he was sure that no one else could perceive. It was as if he had walked through the world with one eye closed, and suddenly the broom-star had opened it.

  Four days after parting from Molly, he was following a hilly trail. He paused at the crest of a rise that overlooked the great river and immediately his heightened senses were drawn toward a boat slowly making its way northward. There was something unusual about it that caught his attention.

  He drew out a small spyglass, a gift from Sir William, opened it and put it to his eye—marveling, as always, at how it brought distant things so close. Shortly he managed to find the boat and saw that it was heavily-laden—something large was lashed to the deck. With his opened eyes he knew that was what had attracted him; but he also took notice of two people standing at the rail, watching the river flow by—two whites, an older man and a young, beautiful woman.

  And as he watched, the woman’s eyes looked away from the river and directly at him—as if she had a spyglass of her own. She tugged at the sleeve of the man beside her and pointed—

  Joseph pulled the spyglass away and crouched in the underbrush, the scene vanishing—but he still felt as he was being observed.

  He had two choices. One was to turn and run away, to follow a trail southward, away from the river, and avoid the encounter entirely; the other was to run toward the river, and perhaps find out what had attracted his attention in the first place.

  He didn’t know the people on the boat—but he felt that somehow the woman had noticed, and perhaps even identified, him.

  It took him only a moment to decide.

  They met at a gentle bend in the river, the flatboat secured at a sandbank. Joseph approached cautiously, noting that there were several men in uniforms near the rail, muskets in hand, watching him carefully. The young woman moved toward the rail, but the older man held her back.

  “That’s as close as you need to come, boy,” one of the soldiers said, raising his musket very slightly. Joseph stopped, his hands spread wide.

 
“I don’t mean any harm,” he said.

  “You speak the King’s English, at least,” the soldier replied. “That’ll make this easier. We’re only stopped here because the lady asked it. State your business and be quick about it.”

  “What are you carrying?”

  “None of your concern, but why do you care?”

  “I can—” he began, then thought better of it. “It caught my attention. That box.” He gestured toward the cargo. “Whatever it is.”

  The soldier looked at the woman, who ignored him. She came to the rail, also ignoring the older man, who looked slightly alarmed.

  “Lieutenant, I think we should permit this young man to come aboard.”

  “With respect, ma’am, we don’t know what he’s about. It’s a risk—”

  “Which I’m willing to take. Please allow him to join us.”

  The older man stepped next to her and said something; Joseph was fairly sure it was in French, which surprised him; could this be a French boat, this far below Albany? No, he decided: they talked about the King’s English.

  With what seemed to be great reluctance, they extended a stepped ramp from the side of the boat to the sandy shore, and Joseph walked carefully up and onto the boat. The two soldiers held their muskets tightly, as if they were ready at any moment to fire them.

  “To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” the older man said. “My name is Charles Messier. I am honored to escort Mademoiselle Catherine LaGèndiere.” He gestured to the woman.

  “My Christian name is Joseph, son of Brant. I am of the Wolf Clan of the Mohawk people. My sister is Molly, called Degonwadonti, the partner of Chief Big Business, Sir William Johnson.”

  “And why do you take an interest in our cargo, young man?” Catherine said. “Do you . . . ”

  There seemed little point in keeping it to himself. “I can feel it. It feels—different.”

  “Then you are very perceptive. Is that a skill you have always had?”

  “The Great Spirit has given me wider vision in recent months,” Joseph said. “I notice things that others do not.”

  “What happened to your hands?”

  The question, asked without preface, made Joseph’s stomach jump. He held his hands before him, palm up; they still bore very slight evidence of where they had been burned by the filament that had connected the Floating Head to the ground.

  “They were burned, lady.”

  “And in an unusual way.” She took his left hand in hers and traced a line along his palm. Her finger felt like fire as it followed the scarcely-visible scar from his contact with the Floating Head.

  “Yes.”

  “We are on our way to the British army camp,” she said. “What we are bringing—”

  “Catherine—” Messier began, but she continued.

  “. . . is something we hope will make a difference.”

  “I can feel it.”

  “Can you indeed?” Catherine turned to Messier. “Monsieur,” she said, “I think we should continue our journey with this young warrior as our guest.”

  Messier looked dubious, but at last he nodded, gesturing toward the pilothouse.

  “Lady, I was meaning to go to New York—”

  “No,” Catherine said. “No, young warrior, you don’t want to do that.” She had not let go of his hand, and now held it tightly. “Someone has brought things from the earth, terrible things. It is no place to be.”

  Messier looked alarmed. “What—”

  “Come with us,” Catherine continued. “I will show you what we are bringing. We will save both our peoples.”

  Joseph thought for a moment, his gaze captured by the young Frenchwoman.

  “As you wish,” he said.

  Chapter 56

  We must cling to what we understand

  Prince Edward, often accompanied by Captain Revere, spent part of his day walking through the encampment, making sure he was visible to the assembled troops waiting for the native army to attack. He issued no orders and gave no direction; it was a matter of visiting with wounded men, listening to complaints and answering questions. He did not wear his dress uniform and did not powder his hair—he wanted to meet his fellow soldiers as one of their own, a prince who was willing to fight with them and suffer with them. Most of them had scarcely ever seen, and certainly never met, a scion of royal blood; he could sense that there was something that impressed them beyond his words or his appearance.

  The comet has done something to me as well, he thought.

  He remembered the eerie fog that had enveloped Neptune on the night the comet fell—the event that was beginning to be called ‘the Sundering’—and the vision of his father, eight years dead.

  Can you see me now, Father? he wondered. Do I meet your expectations?

  It was no surprise that he received no answer.

  The supply train was located in a protected valley south and east of the main camp. On a late summer afternoon a few days after the battle, Edward—with Revere accompanying him—was conversing with two of the sutlers when he noticed the approach of a group of horsemen. He gracefully excused himself and stepped away.

  At the head of the troop was a familiar face—the Marquis de Montcalm, turned out in a resplendent dress uniform, from highly polished boots covered with bright white gaiters to an elaborate hat bearing a fleur-de-lys cockade. He was accompanied by a dozen similarly-dressed soldiers—enough to constitute an honor guard, far too few to be an attacking force. There was also a black-cassocked priest among the group, a stark contrast to the brightly arrayed men.

  Montcalm saw the prince from some distance; he lifted his hand to stop their progress and dismounted. He turned and nodded to another man whom Edward recognized as D’Egremont. Presently the two Frenchmen began to approach; they stopped a dozen feet away and made a leg.

  “Monsieur le Marquis. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  “Your Highness. I am glad to encounter you first. We have reached a decision regarding the matter we previously discussed.”

  “Your Grace, I am not the person of authority with whom you must treat. I would be honored to escort you to General Amherst—”

  Montcalm walked closer, so that the two men were able to speak quietly. “No. It is you with whom I wish to speak.”

  Edward wanted to demur further, but thought better of it. “Let us walk,” he said, and they walked away together.

  “I have been thinking about our last conversation,” Montcalm said. “What’s more, we have had reports of your recent encounter with the savages.”

  “We acquitted ourselves the best we could.”

  Montcalm looked over his shoulder at Revere, who appeared uncomfortable waiting with D’Egremont. “I was referring, Highness, to your encounter. And your bravery in battle.”

  “I don’t need to tell you, Monsieur, that in combat one does what is necessary. It brings out both bravery and cowardice, and for those who have had only occasional experience it is unclear which will come to the fore.”

  “It is a matter of character.”

  “That might be the case, sir. I do not feel qualified to make any judgment. And as was pointed out to me in no uncertain terms, I acted in contravention to orders. That hardly recommends me as an expert. Again, General Amherst—”

  “No.” Montcalm stopped walking. “This is for you first.” Edward stopped as well.

  “What is?”

  “After consultation, Highness, I have been authorized to place the forces under my command at your disposal. The ultimate decision regarding the government of the lands claimed by His Most Catholic Majesty is still in the future; but in the meanwhile, the army of the savages coming out of the west must be defeated.”

  “You are exercising your . . . power of choice.”

  “I daresay.”

  “I still must insist, Monsieur, that I am not in any position to accept your generous offer. As you say regarding French lands, the ultimate disposition of my grandfather’s colo
nies here in America is still very much an open question. And that is dependent on whether we defeat the hostile natives—and whether I live to be presented with the crown you seem to think is already on my head.

  “I am a prince, but . . . to be perfectly honest, sir, I am not king of anything, nor am I general of anything. I can acknowledge your gesture—but unless so directed, I cannot immediately accept it.”

  “This is not an offer to General Amherst, Highness. This is an offer to you.”

  “Then, with all due respect, Your Grace, I must decline.”

  “The participation of my command might make the difference between victory and defeat, Highness, and you are deferring to protocol?”

  “Even in view of the highly unusual circumstances, Monsieur, it is incumbent upon us to fall back upon such things—it is a part of who we are. Regardless of what the future holds for all of us, we must cling to what we understand and find familiar. Otherwise we will be adrift, strangers in unfamiliar country.”

  Montcalm sighed. He looked to be equal parts angry and exasperated.

  “I ask that you present yourself to General Amherst, Monsieur.”

  “I will not offer my services to General Amherst. Only to you, and you personally.”

  It was Edward’s turn to sigh. He knew that with a word he could accept Montcalm’s offer; that Amherst, and Wolfe, and for that matter everyone above him in rank such as Admiral Boscawen, would eventually be compelled to come to terms with the situation. It was looking increasingly more likely that he would have to consider taking on the role of sovereign, and that would erase any shortcoming in his present rank—making it what the French might call a fait accompli.

  Yet for all that, such a thing was in the future, not now, and if he asserted his royal prerogative now, the other men might bear a grudge later. They needed to accede to this situation in the present.

  “He has the right to hear of this, at least. Come, Monsieur. Let us see what General Amherst has to say.”

  News traveled fast in the camp. Before Prince Edward could send a messenger to Amherst, the general came to find them. Montcalm had sent D’Egremont back to the French camp along with his escort and stood alone to meet the British commander.