“You wanted to see the woman from the farm,” Sagatchie said as he lowered the ladle.
“But then I learned she is mute.”
“Not mute,” the Mohawk explained. “Français.”
“I am Madame Pritchard.” As soon as the woman spoke, Duncan understood why she had deceived the soldiers. Although she obviously spoke English, her accent was unmistakable. She would be in danger of imprisonment if the English army knew a French woman was living along its chain of forts.
“You knew these people well?” Duncan asked. “You knew Hickory John?” He glanced nervously out onto the moonlit road, where a sentry was supposed to be patrolling.
Sagatchie sensed his worry. “The guard found a bottle of applejack. He will not be troubling us.”
Duncan studied the Mohawk for a moment. Even rangers from the tribes had to observe discipline, had to follow orders. Sagatchie seemed unconcerned that he was likely to incur the sergeant’s wrath.
Madame Pritchard spoke in slow, patient tones, first of her admiration for the little mission community and the Christian natives who had cleared the land near the church and built the first cabin, now the school, and then from that nucleus constructed a thriving settlement. Their priest, an Anglican, had been a woodworker before joining the clergy, and even as they built their houses he had insisted they also build items that could be purchased by the military, at first barrels and kegs, then later wagons and carts. Although the man had died of fever the year before, his dream had been fulfilled.
“Where were they from?” Duncan asked. “What tribe?”
The woman glanced at Sagatchie. “Iroquois. Mohawks I think. There are hundreds of Christian Iroquois in Quebec, where I was born, taught by the Jesuits and Dominicans. When the British pushed the Catholic missionaries out of their lands, the Anglicans arrived.” She shrugged. “God is not jealous about whose Bible you read from.”
“But Hickory John was never christened.”
“Hickory John was as close to a saint as any of us ever knew. He openly admired the wisdom of the holy book, but his gods were in the trees and beasts of the forest. A reverent man, but not afraid to laugh. When he was not making his famous wheels, he would carve little things, useful things like spoons but also frivolous things likes toys for les enfants.”
“And his grandson?” Duncan asked.
The French woman found a milking stool and sat close to Duncan. “Ishmael was the center of his life. It is why he settled here, he told me once, because he knew the boy had to understand the European world. But he still kept the boy rooted to the old ways. They would go off in the forest, sometimes for days at a time, and the boy would come back with strange markings on his skin.”
“They went to the church?”
“None sang louder than Hickory John. He loved the ritual. He wanted the boy to know how to speak to the European god, he told me once. He knew he would not have too many years left with the boy, and he wanted the people here to consider him part of their family when he was gone.” The French woman sighed. “Now what will he do?”
Duncan’s head snapped up. “He was not killed? He is safe?”
“Safe, never. Alive, yes, for now. I have prayed for him, for them all, and will do so everyday.”
“Them? The other children? You know where they are?”
Madame Pritchard would not look him in the eye. “They came in the morning, before noon. Ishmael said he heard a wagon on the road and men’s voices raised in greeting. He thought it was just another supply train. But it wasn’t. We thought no raiders would dare strike this close to the forts, never on the main supply road where the army is always coming and going.” She dabbed at her eyes with the hem of her long dress. “The boy had so many tears and sobs, hard to make sense of his story. There were ten or twelve of them. French Indians and European militia, he thought. They moved quickly, like raiders always do. They forced everyone into the smithy where Hickory John made his wheels. Some of the raiders went to the barn and some worked on his grandfather. That’s what the boy said. Worked on him, with his own tools.”
Duncan clenched his jaw, exchanging a knowing glance with Sagatchie. They had seen how the raiders had worked on the Nipmuc.
“They forgot the children at first. After he asked the two oldest to run to see if they could help their parents, the schoolmaster, Mr. Bedford, told the others to hide in the woodshed behind the school. But Ishmael ran out, looking for his grandfather. He was too late, for his grandfather was already a prisoner in the smithy. He hid in the rocks on the slope above. The shutter on the rear window was partly open, and he could see figures inside, though they were in shadow. Some raiders guarded those of the town while another tormented poor old John. Ishmael never saw his face, could not hear his voice, though sometimes the raiders laughed at things he said.”
Duncan closed his eyes for a moment, remembering how the old Nipmuc’s body had been savaged. “Why? Why would they break his fingers and beat him?”
The French woman no longer bothered to wipe at the tears that flowed down her cheeks. “They demanded something. He would not give it up. They beat him with a wheel spoke. They took each finger and pounded it on the anvil like it was some bent nail. Finally they began killing the others,” she said with a sob. “The boy said they sang a hymn as they died, poor wretches. They were taught not to be violent, to accept the destiny the Lord had chosen for them. I suppose they thought it was just the way they were being called to heaven.
“Hickory John sang, too, the boy said, at first that hymn. But after a few died he switched to an old Indian song, a warrior’s death song.”
Duncan wanted to weep himself.
“Then they hitched the horses and left.”
Duncan looked up in confusion. “Hitched them to what?”
“The new wagon in the barn.”
“Raiders don’t use wagons.”
Madame Pritchard shrugged. “They must have had something to carry.”
“Left in the direction of Quebec?”
“South.”
“Surely not,” Duncan said. “South is where the British troops are thickest. You saw them?”
She shrugged again. “We are a quarter mile off the road. We work hard. We don’t take notice of every wagon or rider. The boy saw. Ishmael saw them drive the wagon south on the Albany road.”
Duncan considered her words. It was so horrible, and so impossible. Raiders didn’t use wagons. Raiders didn’t leave settlements unburned. Raiders didn’t commit such atrocities then continue deeper into enemy territory.
“The boy?” he asked, “the children?”
The French woman scrubbed away more tears. “They took the children. Brave Mr. Bedford tried to escape with them, and they were caught. The Huron have lost most of their people to sickness and war. A strong child will fetch many furs when they reach the slave market in the North.”
Duncan’s heart sank. “All the children? Ishmael is with the raiders too?”
“I fear he wants to be.”
“I’m sorry?”
“He watched the raiders then ran to our house.”
Duncan felt a flicker of hope. “He’s there now?”
“He stayed with my older daughter when the rangers fetched us here. I went back for chores, to get my children to bed. But Ishmael wasn’t there. It was someone else.”
“Someone else?”
“I told your friend Conawago when I went to give him food and change the bandage on his shoulder. Somehow he knew I was no mute. He wanted to know everything. When I said he was in the very chamber where the Nipmucs lived, he rose and walked about, lifting things, even moving furniture. There was a loose board under a chest. Conawago pulled it up and extracted a knife wrapped in doeskin. A beautiful knife, with a long handle carved with forest images and a flint blade, very old, more like a ceremonial object than a weapon. He pressed the hilt to his heart then stared at it a long time and grew even more sad. He wiped his eyes, and when he looked up there was a terrible fire in them. He put the knife in his belt then grew calmer.