The Old American (11 page)

“How do you think the latest war between the French in Europe and the English in Europe will go?” St. Blein asks casually, though by the stiffness of the question, the insertion of the word “latest,” and the repetition of the word “Europe,” Caucus-Meteor can tell the ensign is entering into something more than small talk.

“I cannot say,” says Caucus-Meteor.

“Our fate in Canada is being determined by men who have never and will never set foot on our soil,” St. Blein says. Caucus-Meteor thinks, more anti-France talk. He decides to taunt the ensign a little to see how he behaves.

“Fate … determined by men?” Caucus-Meteor says with false incredulity. “I thought the believers of your faith hold the finger of the one true God to be in every pudding.”

“And so it is … said, but let us not discount free will, for as long as any man's will is free, by God's grace, luck, and fortitude, he will be free to err.” St. Blein chuckles without mirth.

Caucus-Meteor thinks that this young man is far more humorless in peace than in war, on his home ground than on foreign lands. “Why don't you file your complaints with the governor-general—he's your commander, isn't he?” Caucus-Meteor says.

“I have complained, but Galissoniere is a naval officer, an interim governor, an old man. He wants only to return to the sea. He will not involve himself in civilian affairs, because he knows Bigot has important friends in Old France as well as here in Canada among the merchants.”

An awkward silence ensues. Caucus-Meteor hates sitting like this, ass off the ground—downright unnatural, hurts the back. If there were more room, he'd kneel on the floor and sit on his heels.

St. Blein breaks the silence, erupting into a long harangue about corruption in Canada. It's the same speech he gave in the canoe, but then it just seemed like traveler's talk, easy and of no consequence. Now, something else, something as yet unspoken, is at stake. The missing idea titillates the old king's curiosity.

St. Blein ends his speech with a flourish. “Canada for Canadians, my friend.”

“Fine words,” says Caucus-Meteor.

“Yes, I believe so. No more tribute, no more drain of our capital to Old France. Canadian, native, réfugié—all will be the same people. Remember this well, my savage friend: Canada for Canadians.” St. Blein has already forgotten that it was Caucus-Meteor who gave him his motto.

Suddenly, Caucus-Meteor understands what the ensign has not yet said. “You've made a decision. You're really going to knock a hole in the French canoes.”

“It's done. From here on in I will work for a free Canada. Caucus-Meteor, I need your help.”

“Much as I respect you, Ensign, I doubt there is much wisdom in your ideas. I cannot ask my people to join a rebellion.”

“It's too early for a call to arms. I ask only that you discuss the matter with other chiefs this summer during the trade fairs, gauge the sentiment, perhaps plant the seed of the idea.”

“I don't think I wish to be associated with this matter.”

St. Blein looks away, gazes out the window, listens perhaps to the wheels on the paving stones. Finally, he says magnanimously, “Of course. I am sure that Caucus-Meteor is doing what is right for his people.”

The carriage travels to a second lower town on the banks of the St. Charles river, close to where it flows into the mighty St. Lawrence. “Here, driver—stop here,” calls the ensign. They've arrived at the intendant's palace, a two-story stone building covered with tin and larger than even the governor's palace.

“I will now go on to my father's house,” says the ensign.

“Quite a house it is, I understand,” says Caucus-Meteor, to be polite.

“Yes, with a mother who prays with the nuns, three younger sisters who change dresses four and five times a day, and a father slickened by the oils of corruption.” Ensign St. Blein shakes the old American's hand, and Caucus-Meteor and Nathan step out of the carriage.

The guard at the palace back door recognizes Caucus-Meteor, nods to him, goes inside, comes back a few minutes later, and ushers Caucus-Meteor and Nathan into an office with bookcases, cat-claw chairs, a red velvet–upholstered couch, a map of the vast emptiness of North America on the wall, and an ornate and polished desk, brought over from Old France. Behind the desk sits a pocked-faced, slit-eyed man in his fifties wearing a long powdered wig, with slender, manicured fingers and nails painted pink, a green coat with white lace frills at the throat and sleeves, a strong flowery aroma emanating from the perfumed pores of his skin.

Caucus-Meteor is taken aback. It's not the intendant's man, it's the intendant himself, François Bigot. He's warm and friendly with Caucus-Meteor, asks about his adventures on the warpath, jokes with him, compliments him on the good behavior of his slave, takes his money with a casual “merci.” He gives Caucus-Meteor a fat nugget of tobacco he claims is from Virginia. Caucus-Meteor knows he's being flattered for a purpose, but at the same time he thinks he must be somebody special for the intendant to give him a gift. He's visited with the passing thought that he might yet be not just chief of a small village of American réfugiés, but a true king. He's talking in French, but his feelings come through in English, the language of his slavery, in two little words with an exclamation point at the end—“a king!”

“Fine-looking slave,” Bigot says, with a dismissive glance at Nathan. “Are you going to sell him to us or use him for your own?” The disposition of prisoners of war is the domain of the governor-general, so Bigot has no interest in Nathan Blake. Caucus-Meteor wonders whether the intendant is making small talk or whether he's pursuing another idea.

“The fate of the captive has yet to be determined. I must meet with my council to discuss his situation.” In truth, Caucus-Meteor doesn't have a council.

Bigot reaches into a desk drawer and withdraws some papers. Now Caucus-Meteor begins to see the world through the yellow glow of nervous exhaustion. He knows that when papers appear, Americans are going to lose in the transaction.

“Do you know what these are?” Bigot asks with a sly smile.

“Of course, they are the royal parchments,” Caucus-Meteor says.

“It is the legal title to the lot where your summer village is presently located.”

“I see,” says Caucus-Meteor, picking up the papers and looking at them with a studious expression. He used to imagine that if he could touch paper, smell the ink, gaze at the marks with deep concentration, the writing would come to life; now the real thing in his hand mocks his imagination. Back during the raid, Caucus-Meteor was often tired, but he was never afraid. Now he is more weary than ever—and afraid. He struggles to maintain a calm exterior. “I bought the land from some Montagnais when Conissadawaga was established by myself and my late wife.”

“I think liberties were taken, old prelate. The deed states that the property was sold by the Montagnais to a Frenchman, who defaulted on loans to the government. The land you purchased was not for the seller to sell. The land that you claim for your village belongs to the crown, and therefore is my burden and responsibility to administer.”

Caucus-Meteor understands now what's going to happen, and he tries to head it off. “We are a poor village of réfugiés from a dozen different tribes driven to Canada by your enemy to the south. It would be expensive and burdensome for the French government to relocate us.”

“We understand the great difficulty and sensitivity of the situation,” Bigot says sympathetically. “Relocation is not even a consideration, nor is dispersion. But let us be honest. Conissadawaga is not so poor. We hear that your moccasins are highly prized.”

“How much in tribute do you want?” Caucus-Meteor asks.

“France needs currency for its war effort not just here, but in Europe,” says Bigot, and then he writes a figure on a separate parchment, and announces its meaning. “The tribute will be due one year from the day you plant your corn, understand?”

Caucus-Meteor nods.

“I am sure your village can raise its share, and the king will be grateful for your contribution. Now, please excuse me, I have other appointments.”

On the way out, Caucus-Meteor says to Nathan first in Algonkian and then in English. “We are going to the stables now.”

On one side of the palace is a storehouse, on the other a prison. In the rear of the palace is a large garden, and then the stable. Caucus-Meteor and Nathan are alone briefly as they walk from the palace to the stables. “I know what you are thinking, Nathan Blake,” says Caucus-Meteor. “You could overpower me, steal a canoe, and make your way south.”

Nathan Blake cracks a crooked smile, which tells Caucus-Meteor that his attempts to read his slave's mind have only partly succeeded. The man is harboring a secret, he thinks.

“A master who reads thoughts has little need for a slave,” Nathan bows.

His words halt the old American. His English captive is full of both pride and humility, ignorance and knowledge, caution and daring. Bleached Bones is right, he thinks. If I don't kill him or sell him, he will do harm to my village in ways I cannot fathom. But he won't kill Nathan Blake, at least not soon, for the captive, this man who spared his life, has found his way into the dreams that will guide him into the next realm.

The two men enter the royal barn, where they find a man in his thirties mucking out stalls. He's dressed like a Frenchman, though with beaded belt and moccasins. On his homely dark face he carries an expression of perpetual patience, like a porcupine up a tree waiting out wolves. From thongs around his neck hang a knife and a Christian cross. “This is Norman Feathers, my kinsman, a man who remembers everything that has been said and judges none of it,” Caucus-Meteor says in English to Nathan. “He's a villager of Conissadawaga, but works for the French. He'll transport us in his canoe. It's about ten English miles north just off the big river.”

On the canoe ride to Conissadawaga, Caucus-Meteor and Norman Feathers converse, switching back and forth between Algonkian and French. Norman doesn't have much prestige in Conissadawaga, because thus far he has refused to marry, but he's a self-contained man, very sincere, very honest, and Caucus-Meteor ranks him as trustworthy if not particularly interesting.

Caucus-Meteor shapes a plan to deal with the intendant. He says to Norman in Algonkian, “Go to the home of my commander, St. Blein. Ask to see him in private. Tell him that Caucus-Meteor has changed his mind, and will comply with his request. Tell him to contact me after I've returned from the summer trade fairs.”

“I will do it,” says Norman.

“Norman, you are still a follower of Jesus?”

“I confess my sins, take communion when I am near a church. I am sorry, Caucus-Meteor. I know you were against my conversion, but my faith in Jesus is strong.”

“I am not angry with you, Norman. Long ago I had a falling out with a priest, but probably it's time to give Jesus another chance.” Caucus-Meteor switches to French, tells Norman about his run-in with the intendant. “Do you think if the village allowed the priests to establish a mission in Conissadawaga that the church could protect us against the intendant?”

“I don't know about the church, but Jesus can do anything.”

“It's worth a try. Go to your priest and tell him that Caucus-Meteor would like him to say mass in the American village of Conissadawaga.”

T
hey're less than a mile from their destination when Caucus-Meteor stops talking, stops paddling. He's gathering his little remaining strength for his entry into his village. He cannot show how weak he is. He kneels in the canoe, head on arms spread over paddle straddling the thwarts, body resting, but mind at work. He's trying to think of a way to assuage his daughters' grief; he's scheming to retain his authority as a leader; he's brooding over potential trouble with the intendant, trouble with St. Blein, trouble with soldiers, with the Iroquois, with ghosts, with weather, with mysterious forces that no man can understand, anticipate, or control in any way. Twice he might have been killed by the hand of the people who killed his father, and twice he was spared through no action of his own. Why won't the gods let him die? It's that damned dream—he has to fulfill its portents. His worries are all too much, and he soothes his mind by imagining himself sitting on a stick throne, the king of North America.

Two boys appear on the bluff above the river. Norman spots them, hollers a greeting. Caucus-Meteor sits up, waves, calls out the names of the boys. “The older boy is Sebec, whose father was killed in the wars. The younger, well, I cannot speak his name in English, nor can the meaning of the name be translated into English,” he says to Nathan, “but it's something like way of freedom, with the words running together in one excited breath.”

“Free way?” says Nathan.