Jenny looked taken aback, but then realized, as Rachel had, that the Sachem was well enough acquainted with European custom as to have recognized her by her dress as a widow. Either that, Rachel thought, amused, or he’s a good guesser.
Her amusement vanished in the next instant when the Sachem took Jenny’s hand in his and said, quite casually, “He is still with you—your husband. He says to tell you that he walks upon two legs.”
Jenny’s mouth fell open and so did Rachel’s.
“Yes, I was born with it,” the Sachem said, smiling as he released Jenny’s hand. “But the name of my manhood—should you prefer to use it—is Okàrakarakh’kwa. It means ‘sun shining on snow,’” he added, his eyes creasing again.
“Blessed Michael, defend us,” Jenny said under her breath in Gaelic. “Aye,” she said in a louder voice, and drawing herself up straight, managed the ghost of a gracious smile. “Sachem will do fine for now. My name’s Janet Flora Arabella Fraser Murray. Ye can call me Mrs. Janet, if ye like.”
84
Fried Sardines and Strong Mustard
IF THE SACHEM KNEW anything else of an unsettling nature, he kept it to himself, instead telling them—in answer to their questions—that he had gone with his nephew to London, as companion and adviser, hence his familiarity with English and his fondness for tea and fried sardines with strong mustard.
It was a long and elaborate meal, and by the time they had reached the corn pudding with dried strawberries, Rachel’s breasts were beginning to tingle, pushing at her stays with increasing urgency. Now that Oggy could eat a little solid food, he nursed less often, and this sense of being about to burst hadn’t happened in some time.
She pushed the thought aside; think of Oggy for one minute more, and her milk would let down. She’d folded pads of cloth inside her stays as a precaution, but they wouldn’t withstand the gush for long. She caught Catherine’s eye and made a brief, questioning look with a nod of the head toward the door.
Catherine stood at once and, touching her husband’s shoulder with brief affection, beckoned Rachel with a nod to follow her.
“Oggy—my babe,” Rachel said, in the hallway. “Where is he just now?” She had been induced to let a young Mohawk girl mind Oggy while they had tea, but had no idea where the girl might have taken him.
“Oh,” said Catherine, with a little frown. “I saw Bridget take him outside a little while ago. Don’t worry,” she added kindly, seeing Rachel’s face. “He’s well wrapped up, and I’m sure they’ll come back soon.”
“Soon” wasn’t going to be soon enough; Rachel’s breasts were beginning to leak at just the thought of Oggy.
“In that case,” she said, trying to preserve her dignity, “may I trouble you to show me to the necessary?”
The necessary was outside, a well-tended brick structure, and Catherine left Rachel there with a smile. Rachel thanked her and hastily moved behind the privy. Privacy was necessary, but she didn’t mean to express her milk into a cesspit.
She managed the stays barely in time. One thought of her son, heavy and boneless in his absorption, the sudden hard pull of his suckling, and milk jetted from both breasts, spattering among the tattered red creepers that grew up the wall of the privy. She closed her eyes, sighing in relief, then opened them almost at once, hearing the creak of the privy door on the other side of the building, then footsteps on the path.
She had barely time to clutch her cloths to her exposed breasts before a man came round the corner of the necessary, stopping dead when he saw her.
“Wehhh!” he said, goggling at her. He was a white man, though very much tanned by the sun, like Ian. He had no tattoos, but wore clothes that were a combination of Indian and European dress, like Joseph Brant, though his garments were of a much lesser quality. He limped badly, she saw, and walked with a stick.
“If thee doesn’t mind, Friend, I would be grateful for a moment’s privacy,” she said, with what dignity was possible.
“What?” He jerked his eyes from her breasts and looked her in the face. “Oh. Oh, certainly. My pardon. Er … madam.” He backed slowly away, though he seemed unable to remove his eyes from her chest.
He turned hastily at the corner of the necessary and almost immediately collided with someone coming rapidly the other way. Rachel heard the impact, a feminine outcry, another Mohawk execration from the man, and then …
“Gabriel!” Silvia Hardman’s voice said in astonishment.
“Silvia!”
Rachel stood frozen, warm milk dribbling over her fingers.
Both voices together said, in tones of accusation, “What is thee doing here?”
“Lord, have mercy,” Rachel said, under her breath, and took two steps to the corner of the necessary, peering cautiously round it.
“I—I—” GABRIEL’S FACE was pale with shock, but Rachel could see that he bore the signs of work, long months of exposure to the sun, and the marks of starvation, not that long in the past. “I— Silvia? It is thee? Really thee?”
Silvia’s shoulders were shaking under her gray cloak. She lifted a trembling hand to her face, as though wondering whether it really was her.
“It … is,” she said, sounding doubtful, but the hand dropped, and she took a few steps toward her husband and stopped, staring at him. Her head tilted as she looked down, and Rachel saw that in addition to the stick he had dropped, he had a crutch tucked under one arm, and the leg and foot on that side were oddly twisted.
“What happened to thee?” Silvia whispered, and her hand went out toward him. He made a small, convulsive movement as though to take her hand, but then drew back.
“I—was taken. By Shawnee. They brought me north; one night I escaped. That made them angry, and they—chopped my foot in half.” He swallowed. “With an ax.”
“Oh, Christ Jesus, have mercy!”
“He did,” Gabriel said, mustering a very small smile from somewhere. “They didn’t kill me. I still had value as a slave. What—”
“Thee is a slave here?” Silvia was beginning to get a grip on her emotions; her voice held indignation as well as shock.
Gabriel shook his head, though.
“No. The Lord did protect me; the Shawnee sold me to a band of Mohawk who had with them a Jesuit priest—they were escorting him to a mission in Canada. He spoke only French, and I had little enough of that, but he bound and poulticed my wound and I showed him that I could write and figure, and he persuaded my captors that I would be worth more to a man of property than working someone’s fields.”
“Mr. Brant?” Silvia sounded utterly horrified, and Rachel was, too.
“Eventually.” Gabriel sounded suddenly tired, and the lines in his face showed stark. “I am—not a slave here, though. I am … free.”
Free.
The word hung in the cold morning air, glistening and sharp as an icicle. No one spoke for a moment, but the unspoken words were as clear to Rachel as if they’d been shouted.
Then why did thee not come home? Or at least send word that thee was not dead?
“Have—has thee been well, Silvia?” Gabriel stood still, leaning on his crutch. He wore no wig and the cold wind lifted his fine, thinning hair so it shimmered for a moment, like a fleeting halo.