Council of Fire Read online

  “For an Englishman.”

  “I didn’t say that,” D’Egremont answered. “And I’m not sure that distinction means anything anymore, Your Grace. When we fought the natives, he was as brave as anyone on the field.”

  “Is he strong in the faith?”

  “He is not a part of Mother Church, of course, nor has he indicated that he would convert.”

  “So he does not intend to accept it. I’m curious why he was eager to have me crown him.”

  “He made the offer to Montcalm, because he wanted to honor our people.”

  “There is no clergyman of comparable rank in the English plantations.”

  “While that is true, Your Grace . . . I think he made the gesture consciously and intentionally.”

  “Even though I am a Frenchman.” Pontbriand was silent for a few moments, looking down at his hands holding the reins of his horse as they rode along. “I still find that curious.”

  “I should like to speak freely, if I may.”

  “Of course, my son. You may say whatever you need to say.”

  “The world has fundamentally changed. Whatever distinction existed between Frenchman and Englishman is gone now; we are one people or shall be in due time. Language and—perhaps—even color may cease to be matters of distinction, and we must learn to live together.”

  “Our loyalty—”

  “Is to each other, Your Grace.”

  “My loyalty is to the Holy Father in Rome, my son.”

  “If the events of comet-fall are permanent, Your Grace, the Holy Father and Rome itself are forever inaccessible to us. As far as the Holy Church is concerned, Monsieur, you are the head of it; and it will be up to you to decide what that means, and what you will do with the authority that God has invested in you. Indeed, if I may say so—and you might be offended, but I must say it—your loyalty is to your flock.”

  “I am not accustomed to being lectured by a young—”

  He paused, and D’Egremont waited to see how the archbishop would finish the sentence.

  “—lay person. You presume much, my son.”

  “I do, Your Grace.”

  It was not the response that Pontbriand had expected: polite, but direct and not the least bit humble.

  “I shall have to take the matter under advisement.”

  “I would be disappointed, Your Grace, if you did not.”

  Onondaga Council Fire

  The troops were accommodated some distance from the Onondaga village. Skenadoa took charge of the encampment, making sure that the troops did not completely ravage the countryside—an almost impossible task, but neither General Amherst nor the Marquis de Montcalm had any intention of coming west without their armies. Guyasuta was still at large, and still a threat.

  Amherst elected to remain with his command, and detailed General Wolfe to accompany Montcalm into the village, several hundred yards from the encampment. Wolfe appeared to want to object but thought better of it.

  “I have been thinking about all of this,” Montcalm said as they made their way into Onondaga village.

  “I think about it all the time.”

  “Really.”

  “Truly,” Wolfe said. “Six months ago, when the comet fell, I was on the way to New France to finish what we’d started a year ago.”

  “You mean the vain attempt to conquer New France.”

  “Vain!” Wolfe laughed, an annoying habit that set Montcalm’s teeth on edge. “For every Frenchman in the New World, there are ten Englishmen. How did you expect this to turn out?”

  “Do you know the problem with you English?”

  “Tell me,” Wolfe said. “I can scarcely contain my excitement.”

  “English and French colonists, and dissidents, and troops have been on this continent for nearly two hundred years. In all those years the great numbers of English have never managed to conquer the small numbers of French. Wars and campaigns and Indian wars, religious strife—all of it, and we’re still here, and you are still here as well. What makes you think that 1759 would have been any different?”

  “Because 1758 was different, Marquis. We were winning in 1758. We took Louisbourg. We had everything ready for the next campaign—”

  “Until the comet fell.”

  “Your point?”

  “My point? My point, Wolfe, is this: until the comet fell is exactly the point. There was a 1759 campaign coming—and if what I heard is true, you and the troops you commanded, and the troops Amherst commanded, were ready to do what you claimed: conquer New France. At some point you might have even drawn us out to battle. Who can say? Perhaps we would both have died.”

  “That seems vanishingly unlikely. A battle where both commanders die? Who could even conceive of that?”

  “I have a vivid imagination,” Montcalm said. “But it is not a world that exists. We are, remarkably, no longer at war. There was no great battle. We are alive.”

  “Indeed, we are.” They stopped walking. Wolfe looked around the clearing. Ahead of them was a great native house, with doors at each end. “And we are here. For better or worse.”

  “You don’t like the idea.”

  “I do not understand why this ceremony is not taking place in Québec, or Albany, or New York. Why does it have to happen here?”

  “I believe that Monsieur le Prince feels that this ceremony should involve the natives. As we are seeking to bind together so that your people and my people are united, he feels that those of the Iroquois who did not follow Guyasuta and his shaman should be included as well, if they so choose.”

  “Will they consider His Highness their king?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “My dear Marquis, if they do not consider Prince Edward their king, then they are intruders on this ceremony. Or, to put a finer point on it, our ceremony intrudes on them. It should not be here. We should not be here.”

  “You dismiss this so easily, General Wolfe. You resent that you never had the chance to try and conquer New France. You are disdainful of the people your prince—your prince!—is willing to take by the hand. And you find no place for the natives.

  “What do you want, Monsieur? What is the world you would rather live in? The one where you conquer New France? The one where you and I might die in battle? How is that a better world than this?”

  “This is a ‘better world’? Where London and Paris and all the rest of the world is gone? This is not what I expected when we came across the Atlantic.”

  Montcalm stared at Wolfe, and after a moment he began to laugh. It was not simply a snicker—it was a full-throated laugh, erupting from his chest and his throat and shaking his shoulders.

  “Marquis?”

  Montcalm continued to laugh, holding his hand out and looking away from Wolfe, who was reddening as he did so.

  “Monsieur Marquis,” Wolfe said assertively.

  “Pardon,” Montcalm said, finally composing himself. “I’m sorry, General. I could not help myself.”

  “You will give me the courtesy of an explanation.”

  “General Wolfe, this world—the world we have—is what you must come to terms with. You did not expect this? Who could have expected this? A world with stone soldiers and one-handed shamans and, Blessed Mother of God, native divinities who intervene and stop a battle? A world in which French and English fight together? We are not mortal enemies, General. In another world we might well have been. But not in this world.

  “Within a few days, the head of my Church will place a crown on the prince of your country, and he will be my king as well, so long as he gives assurances that my Church and your—varieties of faith—can live in harmony. This is the world we have. You must accept that or go mad. And you must cease troubling yourself about what you expected or what you might have done. You must stop, or I shall die of laughter.”

  In due course a pavilion was erected in the clearing, bearing the flags of both Great Britain and France at the same height. To it, an escort of British regulars in dress u
niform led Prince Edward, unarmed and on foot with bare head, from the encampment. Revere walked behind him, carrying his hat and sword. He was met at the entry by Montcalm, Wolfe and the Tadodaho of the Iroquois; the two European generals offered formal salutes, and the native, without a word, presented the prince with a length of woven shells the width of two hands, two feet in length. Edward accepted the gift with a bow, and then entered the pavilion. Wolfe and Montcalm exchanged glances, and then Wolfe followed the prince inside.

  Edward’s pavilion was spacious and already well appointed; he handed the gift to a subaltern and stripped off his gloves, handing them to Revere, then settled onto a stool.

  “The chief made a great ceremony of that,” he said, gesturing toward the gift.

  “It is called wampum, Your Highness. They do you honor by presenting it to you—a demonstration of wealth, I believe.”

  “Shells?”

  “Their currency. I am told that the purple ones are particularly valuable.”

  “What should I do with it? Display it somewhere?”

  “It is intended to be worn, I believe. The chief had a similar one he wore as a sort of sash.”

  “I shall wear it then. Tell me, General; has the archbishop arrived?”

  “I believe so. He has been situated near the military camp.”

  “Should I have him escorted here? Should I send for him?”

  “I would think so. He is—he will be—your subject.”

  “I would not want to offend him. He is a prince of their church, if I recall the appellation. I think perhaps a polite invitation to join me—”

  “To attend you, Highness.”

  “To join me,” Edward repeated. “We will have to change our view of protocol to get along in this new world, General Wolfe. I know I shall have to make clear to him that I will not be embracing his version of faith, but I shall respect it—both in New France and elsewhere. I shall invite him to join me.”

  “Your Highness, I . . . ”

  “You may speak freely, General.”

  “I hope this is wise. It was Catholics who tore our country apart, who tried to overthrow your grandfather, and his father before him. Whatever they say, their loyalty will always be to their so-called universal church.”

  “You would think that their outlook might have changed, given that the seat of that church is—well, is no longer accessible.”

  “I would not presume to guess.”

  “You presume all that and more, General Wolfe,” Edward said, standing up. “I don’t know what you want from them. We cannot afford to have the French as enemies, not anymore.

  “Go to the archbishop with General Montcalm and present my compliments and ask him to attend me at a time of his convenience.”

  “Highness, I—”

  “Would you rather I send Colonel Revere instead?” He gestured to his aide, who looked surprised at the suggestion.

  Wolfe hesitated a moment, but he said, “No, of course not, Your Highness. I shall attend to it immediately.” He saluted and gave a bow, then backed out of the tent.

  “We must learn to live together,” Edward said. “I pray that we all believe that.”

  Chapter 63

  An unbroken circle

  Onondaga Council Fire

  With all the dignity he could muster, the archbishop of Québec walked slowly up the aisle between two groups of people standing to his left and right. French and British officers and men in dress uniforms, Colonials in their homespun, native warriors in multicolored finery; men and women and children, watching him walk in full episcopal regalia including crook and miter, with a small canopy held over his head by two acolytes, and his vicar-general, Monseigneur Briand, following in his wake. Carpets had been laid down along the path, but the setting was decidedly rustic: in an open-air clearing, under a bright September sun and a brisk September breeze. There was not the comfort of a well-appointed and decorated church—there was not even a roof over the heads of the congregants.

  Though he would never admit it, Pontbriand was nervous about what was to come.

  There had been an extended formal discussion with the prince the previous day. His Highness had received him in a sort of camp tent, as if it had been a council of war—which, upon consideration, was not a bad analogy. It was a campaign for peace, a war against bias and resentment and all the things that had kept all peoples apart for so many years.

  The prince had been clear. There would be no celebratory Mass; he was not a part of the Universal Church, and neither were many of the congregants. Blessings would be Christian, but nondenominational; and while deference would be shown to the Christian faith in the ceremony, the prince would not promise to uphold it as a part of his oath of kingship, and courtesy would be extended to the natives with respect for their beliefs.

  In short, it would be like no coronation ceremony Pontbriand had ever seen or heard of. It almost begged the question of why he was being asked to perform it.

  Because, Prince Edward had said to him, I made a promise to accept a crown from your hands, as a token of my good faith to the subjects in New France.

  What of the Catholic faith? Pontbriand had asked.

  All Catholics may practice their faith without hindrance, Edward had answered. Wherever they reside. And, Your Grace, he had added, I suspect that when they seek Christ’s Vicar upon Earth, they will look to you.

  When he reached the dais, the acolytes turned and faced inward. Pontbriand turned to face the assembly; his vicar-general stepped past to take a position behind him and slightly to his left. On either side of the dais stood a tall native in colorful dress. On his right was a man, with a bow strapped over his back and his hand resting lightly on a tomahawk at his belt, while on his left was a comely woman who held a stalk of wheat in her hand.

  They will all look to you, he thought.

  “‘I have lifted up my eyes to the mountains, from whence help shall come to me,’” he began, spreading his hands. It seemed strange to speak the words in anything but Latin: Levavi oculos meos in montes unde veniet auxilium mihi . . . but he knew that not everyone would understand it in the proper tongue, and the Protestants in particular would find it jarring, Popish, as they would say. But Psalm 121 was as nondenominational as he was willing to be.

  “‘My help is from the Lord, who made heaven and earth. May he not suffer thy foot to be moved; neither let him slumber that keepeth thee. Behold he shall neither slumber nor sleep, that keepeth Israel.’

  “Dearly beloved in the Lord—and in the Great Spirit—we are gathered in this place under the dome of Heaven to mark an event of great moment—to mark a beginning of something new, something that marks us as one people. It is a serious matter, which commands our attention and requires our earnest consent; the crowning and consecration of a king.

  “This ceremony is one that has been performed in many lands and in many eras. It is attended by custom and tradition, protocol and formality . . . and yet in this land, at this time, it is being performed in a manner unlike any other.”

  He lowered his hands to his sides and took a breath. The audience was expectant, waiting for his next words; but they seemed a long time in coming.

  “I will confess,” the archbishop said before continuing, “if this were a French prince, called to rule over the provinces of New France, the formalities and the ceremonies would be familiar and customary. But this ceremony must include everyone, for this prince will be a king for all the people: French and British and native, all who would dwell within his domain.

  “This is the peril of such an uncharted land, and the promise of an uncertain, but hopeful, future. Peril and promise interlinked; that will be our challenge and our hope. His are young shoulders to bear such a heavy burden—but they are strong ones, and we trust in the Lord”—he looked to his right and left at the natives who stood, unmoving, looking directly at him—“and the Great Spirit to protect, enrich and empower him to do right, to rule carefully, to administer with justice an
d mercy. He shall take up the crown alone, but he shall not rule alone.

  “‘My help,’ says the Psalm, ‘is from the Lord, who made heaven and earth . . . he shall not slumber or sleep, that keepeth Israel.’ The eye that sees all pervades our innermost heart: and the One in Heaven will protect us in this time of change, and reward us by our merits.

  “Is the prince ready to be made king?” he asked his vicar-general, without turning.

  “Edward Augustus Hanover, son of Prince Frederick Louis Hanover, grandson of George Augustus Hanover, second of his name, King of Great Britain,” the vicar-general intoned. “If His Highness is disposed to take up the crown of this land, may he deign to approach at this time.”

  From behind the audience, a soldier blew a single, sharp, clear note on a trumpet. Prince Edward stepped out of his pavilion, wearing his Royal Navy dress uniform, draped with the wampum belt that the Tadodaho had presented to him. At his neck, in place of the gorget, he wore a powder-blue ribbon from which was suspended a single silver fleur-de-lys.

  General Amherst stood behind him holding a small pillow on which rested an unadorned gold circlet, which shone in the sun. It had been fashioned by Revere, whose skill as a silver- and goldsmith had been brought to the prince’s attention; a more elaborate crown was in contemplation, but this simple diadem would serve for the ceremony.

  Without a word, Edward walked slowly along the path that the archbishop had trod a few minutes earlier. When he reached the dais, Pontbriand extended his hand—it would have been customary for a Catholic to kiss his ring; but instead Edward took the hand in his own, knelt, and guided the hand to the top of his bare head. It was done so smoothly that neither Frenchmen, who might have found it an affront, nor Englishmen, who might have thought it a demeaning gesture, had time to react; it was what Edward and Pontbriand had agreed upon during their brief interview.

  Humility but not subservience, Edward had said, and Pontbriand remembered the young man’s serious words.

  “Your Highness,” Pontbriand said, looking down at the young man upon whose head he laid his hand, “if you would take upon yourself the burden of kingship, you will please swear the following oath.