“I do not want more blood spilled,” Xavier declared as he dropped another book over the letters, though not before Duncan cast a surreptitious glance at them. Several were written in Italian. Two more were addressed to Logtown, the largest settlement of the Mingoes, and Fort Detroit, largest of the French forts in the West. “The tribes must settle tribal differences among themselves. They must stop being used by European generals.” He gestured to the chronicle of the missionaries. “When our brothers first landed here, they were certain they had found the lambs of God. They were naive. They were in thrall to the arrogant rulers in Rome who were themselves blinded by the gold and jewels of Vatican robes. They thought they had but to shepherd the lambs. They paid for it dearly. Nearly every missionary we sent among them in the early years died, and never easily. The deaths are recorded here in hideous detail. I was among those missions. I ventured with five other brothers into the West. The tribes tortured my comrades in front of me and sent me back to bear witness. But I went back, again and again. Most of me survived.” He held up his left hand, and for the first time Duncan saw that it was missing two fingers.
The blast of a cannon, another solitary ranging shot, shook the walls. Tushcona, clearly unsettled, began low whispered prayers, clutching her amulet. The sound of the cannon seemed to prod the monk, to make his words more urgent. “They died true martyrs, do not mistake me, but their deaths were wasted. Rome kept viewing our mission as a conquest and kept dispatching their Christian soldiers to subjugate the wayward flock of the New World. For decades they refused to allow arms to be given to the tribes of the North since that was inconsistent with their vision of the natives as lambs. When the Dutch and English armed their traditional enemies, many in the northern tribes died needlessly. Rome’s version of the truth has pushed the tribes into slow death.”
The thunder of another gun interrupted the Jesuit, shaking the walls. He glanced resentfully in the direction of the blast.
“The history of the Jesuits is filled with contradiction,” Conawago observed.
“Because they think the tribes are their children!” Xavier shot back, fire suddenly in his voice. “That is the error of their ways! The tribes are not the lambs of God! They are the lions of God!” His voice dropped to a near whisper. “They are the means by which we save our corrupted souls!”
Tushcona’s whispers stopped, as did Duncan’s breathing.
It was Conawago who broke the silence. “The claws of these particular lions are not the tools of the Vatican.”
“Are you deaf!” Xavier snapped. “Do you hear nothing I say? That is the error of our ways! Rome has its holy saints and disciples just as the tribes have their holy spirits of the trees and water, but there is only one god, not one God from Rome and one who sits on the great turtle’s back directing the ways of copper men. There is one, and he watches over our grand chess game to see which side is worthy to survive.”
Duncan eyed the fierce, enigmatic Jesuit, wondering how many sides there were in the game Xavier played.
“Tell me something, Brother Xavier,” Duncan asked, “are you familiar with the chieftains in the western lands?”
Xavier held up his maimed hand again. “The chieftains long ago accepted that I had paid my passage. I have spent many years in the Ohio country, have even seen the mighty Mississippi. I am a familiar face to all those tribes, and to those who trade with them.”
Duncan realized that he had misunderstood Xavier, just as Woolford had not appreciated the contradictions of the Jesuits when he chose not to probe the Jesuit message route. He looked back up at the skins and spears hanging over the tapestry of martyrdom, then at the beaded belts hanging casually from the shelves. The belts, meaningless to almost every European, were the perfect medium for secret messages. A message on one could be hidden in plain sight. Xavier was no monkish scholar. Here was the secret communications center Woolford had been seeking, the nexus of the messages between the French and the half-king. The messages had been carried by the Jesuits, who regularly traveled between east and west. Xavier was a deputy of the half-king. And he had summoned them for a purpose.
Xavier fixed him with the smile of a conspirator. “There is little time left and much to do. The pieces fall together like the gears of a clock. But old feuds are difficult to extinguish. I need you to understand that only one thing stands in the way of the tribes’ true destiny, preventing them from coming together at last in all their glory.”
“The Iroquois Council,” Duncan inserted. “But the Council will never join the cause if their children are killed or enslaved.”
Xavier gave an approving nod. “Exactly. Regis overreacts. He must learn that chess is won with subtle moves.”
“Regis?” Conawago asked.
Xavier made a dismissive gesture. “Before he became a leader of the western tribes, the Revelator had another name.”
Duncan recalled how the half-king had fluently spoken English and French. Regis. It had the sound of a trader’s son, of a half-breed. The crossed boy, Osotku had said as he died.
“He is too bold by half in dealing with the Iroquois League,” the monk continued, “and he corrupts his cause by stealing their children. He was taught better. Now he talks of riches and bounties and bribes. But he has been taught that gold and silver corrupts the soul as much as the rum he loathes. It does not build on the strength of the tribes he wishes to lead. He spent so long in war parties that he forgets how to negotiate.”
“So we have been brought to his peace chief?” Duncan said.
The suggestion brought a thin smile to Xavier’s face. “He deludes himself and must be shown he can win his crown without stooping to the greedy ways of European kings. Our lust for gold is a disease of the soul! We must show ourselves immune!”
Duncan glanced back at Tatamy. Xavier knew much of the half-king’s ways, but not all of them.
Xavier made another dismissive gesture. “I have someone who is waiting for you,” he declared, changing the subject. He picked up one of his candles and led them toward the end of the tapestry. As he reached it, Tatamy lifted one corner, revealing a small arched door.
Two of the walls of the larger room they entered held barrels of wine stacked lengthwise on heavy racks, and the third shelved the heavy crocks used for storing pickled vegetables and grains. Along the far wall a wooden stair reached up into the vaulted ceiling, no doubt into the seminary’s kitchens. Under the stair was a cot on which a tribal girl of perhaps ten years lay. The girl’s arm was in a sling and a long jagged cut ran down one of her cheeks, expertly closed with sutures.
Xavier said nothing, just stepped aside.
Tushcona gasped and rushed forward. “Hannah!” the weaver exclaimed as she embraced the girl. One of the lost children was found.
Tears began streaming down the cheeks of both the old woman and her granddaughter.
Duncan looked back at Xavier, then at the stairway. Was the Jesuit offering them a token of good faith or baiting a trap?
The woman and child spoke with hushed, rapid Iroquois words as Tushcona kissed Hannah’s forehead then examined her injuries. Finally the girl looked up and spoke in English.
“Jacob Pine saved my life!” she declared through her tears.
“I grew so tired, so hungry,” she continued after a moment, clutching her grandmother’s hand. “Those Hurons made us carry heavy loads, and we had to fight their dogs for the bones they tossed aside. But if we showed any weakness they would raise their axes and have our brains on the rocks. I saw it happen, to a boy from the Connecticut country, one day after we joined with another raiding party. When we paused to rest he started crying, hugging his knees and calling for his mother. When it was time to go, he wouldn’t stand up. This Huron yelled and yelled, and then he hit him with his war club. His head popped like a melon. The next day I fell and twisted my ankle and had trouble getting up even with Jacob helping me. That Huron was so angry with me, he lifted his club to strike me.”