The Old American (18 page)

Suddenly the old king is exhausted, a little befuddled, unable to conclude his speech. He bows his head, turns. Nathan takes his hand, and slave and master walk into the darkness toward the wigwam.

After an hour in which he can neither sleep nor concentrate on events in the waking world, Caucus-Meteor comes again to his senses. It's not until the next day, though, that he learns that after he spoke no one said a word. The circle broke up and the people returned to their wigwams.

“What does it mean?” asks Nathan.

“It means that by confessing the secret sin of my ambition, I've regained some authority. The people know that the struggle for the soul of the tribe between Black Dirt and Haggis is over for the time being with neither side emerging as the victor. But the discord everyone sensed but never talked about until this night is now in the open.”

In the days that follow, the men set forth in their canoes to trade the village's products. Staying behind are the old men, who fish the lake and streams, the women, who work the fields with the help of their slave, Nathan Blake, and the children, who also are put to work. Their task is to act as human scarecrows, chasing the birds that would feast on the crops.

The short Canadian summer flies by in more ways than one. The biggest excitement occurs around the fourth of July when a flock of passenger pigeons fifteen miles long and a mile wide passes through Conissadawaga. The birds blot the sun and darken the sky. With sticks and nets and muskets and arrows and spears, the villagers slaughter far more birds than they can eat, but they don't make an impression in the flock.

By now Caucus-Meteor can see light and shadow, and the birds are shadow. After they've gone he announces that the light has returned, and in the feasting that follows the pigeon kill, he holds up one of the small sleek pigeons, and makes a short speech. “This little fellow is our national bird. Long after the red people have been wiped out by the white people, long after the white people have been wiped out by the black people, long after the blue people of the northern tropics have wiped out the black people, long after the gods have wiped color from human skin, wiped color from the human heart, this pigeon will remain to honor us all as one nation.”

Caucus-Meteor's health improves dramatically during the warm weather. The paralysis in his face disappears. Day by day he sees more light, then objects, and finally motion. When the trade missions come drifting back before harvest time, he can distinguish faces and make his way without having to hold Nathan's hand. However, he is still physically weak, and spends most of his hours by his fire. Even so, his presence in the community is greater than ever. It used to be that he went to his people, offering advice or largess in return for their cooperation.

Now they come to him. By the vote of his subjects, he's no longer king. But in reality, he's retaken the reins of power in the village. The ferocious beast of his ambition gnaws at him. How can he keep his hold on the village when the traders come back?

Upon his return to Conissadawaga, Haggis learns that two of his wives are three months pregnant, great cause for rejoicing. He took his trade mission north to Tadousic and beyond on the Saguenay. He traded moccasins for furs, which he then traded in Quebec for household items demanded by his wives. In the north he met with his Cree relatives, learning more about territory where the hunting and trapping were good and where his people would be accepted. Haggis is clear in his mission: persuade the people of Conissadawaga to move north. When he comes to visit the old king for a talk, Caucus-Meteor guesses that for once they're both thinking along the same lines.

“With winter, a year will have passed since the epidemic that decimated our people,” Haggis says, speaking very formally. “Black Dirt's official mourning period will come to an end. In the spring, I would like to marry her, make her pregnant, and through our child unite the tribe.”

Caucus-Meteor does some quick thinking. Haggis believes that, with Black Dirt under his control, the village will make him sole chief, perhaps even king. But as a son-in-law, he might find himself more an heir to the throne than the resident of the seat. By continuing their power struggle within a joined clan, there will be less chance that the village will be divided. Caucus-Meteor concludes it's best to keep the villagers together, even if it means that in the end Haggis will have his way and move the people north.

“I will not stand in your way, but neither will I influence my daughter's decision,” Caucus-Meteor says.

The men part, both knowing they are gambling on the preeminence of their own respective characters.

All during the summer Caucus-Meteor plays host to visiting tribes from all over Canada—traders, relatives, pilgrims, travelers. In casual conversations, Caucus-Meteor brings up the subject of Canada for Canadians, thus fulfilling his obligation to St. Blein. In late September, after the men have returned and the women are hard at work with the harvest, St. Blein, looking dapper and handsome as ever, arrives with several soldiers and the voyageur Robert de Repentigny. The ensign is still fearless and fresh-faced, committed to revolution. Caucus-Meteor thinks: such an idiot, I admire him very much.

De Repentigny pays Black Dirt a visit. The old American watches them walk down to the stone ruins, the tall, stately woman and the short, common man. It was Robert's father who tried to make something out of this land, but it was too much for him and, after he and his wife died of disease brought on by hardship, the local natives took over the land and later sold it to Caucus-Meteor. Robert de Repentigny was Black Dirt's first lover, and the two of them are still friends.

Back at Caucus-Meteor's wigwam, the old chief parleys with the young ensign.

“I don't think Americans wish to involve themselves in a fight between Paris and Canada Frenchmen, because they won't see anything in it for them,” says Caucus-Meteor.

“We must teach them, Caucus-Meteor,” says St. Blein.

“My vision is weak, but I can see the stars in your eyes.”

“We must teach them,” St. Blein repeats in a passionate whisper.

“We must teach them? We?”

“All right—me. I will teach them.” St. Blein bursts into laughter at his little act of vanity.

He's a charmer, thinks Caucus-Meteor. Maybe he really can change the New World. Maybe charm is the main requirement for leadership. “After your revolution, you will need an American king to unite the tribes.”

“I hadn't thought of that.”

“I will be the king of Canada and New England, for in your revolution you might as well grab the disputed territory to the south. I wish to rule from Mount Hope Bay, where my ancestors lived for generations.”

“You are teasing me again, Caucus-Meteor.”

“I'm an old man recovering from a shock. I have nothing else to do but tease a Frenchman with crazy ideas.”

St. Blein smiles without mirth. Caucus-Meteor has accomplished his objective. St. Blein is unsure whether Conissadawaga will side with him or not in his war. For the time being, he has more mundane matters to deal with, Caucus-Meteor knows. In his role as a soldier for Canada, St. Blein is recruiting fighters for more raids on the New England border lands. “I would like to recommend one of our young men for your army,” says Caucus-Meteor.

When the French canoes leave, they have one extra passenger. Against Haggis's wishes, Wolf Eyes has joined the army. Caucus-Meteor claims a great victory over his rival. All of Haggis's other children are too young to pose a threat to Caucus-Meteor, but Wolf Eyes had come of age. If he and his father had made peace, together they would have enough followers to lead the village.

A week later a half dozen Huron mercenaries from Wendake and another Frenchman in civilian garb come to Caucus-Meteor's wigwam. Caucus-Meteor doesn't require sight to recognize the man; he knows him by the smell of his perfume. It's the intendant's man. The rent has been raised again. The intendant expects tribute next spring, and also the following fall. Caucus-Meteor thinks the intendant has gotten wind that he's a sympathizer with rebellious elements in the Canadian army. Caucus-Meteor has no idea how he's going to raise the funds to pay in spring and fall. Probably he'll have to sell his services to the military again and go to war as an interpreter. Where will he find the energy? Maybe he should succumb to Haggis's dream and go north. Or try to yoke his village to another réfugié tribe; maybe the Hurons would take them in. Or simply stay put, but defy the intendant and see what happens. Caucus-Meteor suffers all these worries alone. He has no one to confide in. Now that his health has improved, he feels only the gnawing hound of his ambition. He acknowledges to himself that he more than deserves the terrible loneliness that goes with a scheming mentality.

The harvest season is an even busier time of year for the women than the spring and the summer. Squashes stored in cool, dry stone cellars will keep into the winter. Corn is dried, then stone-ground by hand. Beans are hung on racks. Green vegetables are devoured throughout the season as they are picked. The women also make time to forage in the forest for berries, and later nuts from beech, hickory, and oak trees, which are of low quality since this is the northern limit of the nut trees, so every tree lives a stressed existence.

The women break down the summer village and prepare to move to winter quarters in a valley that catches the winter sun on the southern flank of the mountain ten miles away, where firewood has been cut and stacked the winter before. The old bark walls are stripped off the frames of the summer wigwams and burned, a necessary procedure to rid the area of bugs. Nathan tells his master that his people live too close to the earth.

The men move the tribe's belongings across the lake by canoe where they build sleds, using the same steam-box, bend-the-ash technique for the land carriers as for the canoes. After the first snow, men and dogs will pull the tribe's cooking gear, tools, weapons, personal effects, stoves, and stove piping to the winter village. Even Haggis will admit that the French brought one useful skill to Canada, a refinement of metal-working to make guns, steel axes, and iron stoves.

The fall hunt in November is Haggis's season to demonstrate his talents and largess. He's not only a skilled marksman with a musket and bow and arrow, he's a master tracker and organizer of hunts. He sends out parties of hunters, telling them where they'll find game, how best to bring down the animals. He's almost always right. Some men whisper that the same sorcery he uses to mesmerize women he also employs to locate game. But Caucus-Meteor understands that Haggis uses no tricks, and makes no contracts with dark forces. He just pays attention. During free time throughout the year while other men primp themselves, drink brandy, or gossip, Haggis goes off in the woods by himself. He's gone sometimes for days. Another man might go into the wilderness to pray or to meditate or to examine himself or his beliefs, or to mull over a problem, or just to enjoy the outdoors and solitude; Haggis goes to educate himself. He studies plants, animals, insects, rocks, birds, soil, scrapings, tracks, broken twigs, droppings, the effects of rot, and so forth. He studies with all his senses. He'll stop abruptly before a clump of disturbed grass, stick his nose in and smell it, touch it to test its texture and moisture content, and finally taste it. He'll think: an owl dropped onto an unsuspecting mouse here last night. Caucus-Meteor thinks: if only I could bring down a deer with oratory.

Haggis's purpose is to locate and dispatch animals that his tribe can use for food, clothing, medicine, and trade. By hunting season, Haggis has done ninety percent of the work of the hunter, for he knows where the animals are, their food sources, their habits, the state of their health, the quality of their vigilance. Just as Caucus-Meteor gave away all his money and belongings, Haggis will give away the game he kills. When he's finished, the tribe's larder will be well stocked with meat, but Haggis himself will have neither a trophy head nor personal food store to call his own. Haggis doesn't know it, thinks Caucus-Meteor, but we are kin both in our vices and our virtues.

Through the summer and fall, the slave lives and breathes and labors by the whims of his master, acting as his companion, launderer, cook, and valet. In Nathan's experience, Caucus-Meteor sees a mirror of his own as a slave. Physically, emotionally, and spiritually Nathan lives a marginal existence. He has enough to eat, though often he has to ask for food. His only entertainment is an occasional handout of brandy dispensed by a generous

(drunk) villager. Together he and Caucus-Meteor are the poorest members of the tribe with not even a stove to keep them warm. By the time winter sets in, Nathan has earned the small admiration accorded to a good slave. The villagers like his work habits; they like his strength and health; they like that he's not a complainer. They never think about him. Only I think about him, the old king reflects. I am beginning to love my slave like a son. I must conceal my affection, lest he take advantages. And with that thought an idea grabs hold of him. Perhaps his own master really did love him. And what of it? What if the master does love the slave? Suddenly, the old man feels weak and needy, as he did as a boy slave, desperate for the love of his master. The love within slavery is terrible, terrible, he thinks, for it contains the implements to kill both lovers.

He remembers now that his master was convinced that his slave possessed magical powers, for his facility with languages. Now Caucus-Meteor has grown convinced that his own slave also possesses gifts outside his realm. Sometimes late at night Nathan calls out in his sleep, using English words that Caucus-Meteor is unfamiliar with, words such as chalk lines, gimlet, twybil, and scorp. These words are accompanied by mumbled numbers, and moans of exasperation. Even when he is awake, Nathan's lips move, whispering these strange incantations. His own master used to fear that Caucus-Meteor would kill him out of the spite inherent in his slave condition. Now Caucus-Meteor is thinking that Nathan might overcome his pacifism and kill him. The idea that he might be murdered by his slave turns his mood from gloomy to cheerful. All of his vanities would vanish, and he'd be spared the difficulty of fashioning a reuniting ceremony with the heavenly hosts. But it doesn't happen—Nathan Blake shows no sign of impending violence, just as he himself never thought seriously of killing his master. So what in lieu of rebellion or surrender can the slave do? Caucus-Meteor determines that Nathan Blake has an escape plan, just as he himself did—an escape of mind alone. If I could reach into him for some of that magic, he thinks, if I could join it with the old magic that was within me that perhaps only my master saw, I might yet be the king of North America.