Cora took an involuntary step backward. There was a time the sight of one of her father's oldest friends would have filled her with a girlish desire to throw her arms around his waist and inhale the reassuring smell of tobacco and acetone. But apparently she had reached a point where the familiar shocked her more than the strange.
"What's this, Rupert?" The tall man standing to Mr. Phelps' left let his eyes flicker from Cora to Alice and back again. "Didn't realize we'd attracted camp followers."
"You'll want to be more careful around Colonel Munro's daughters, Josiah Ashby," Mr. Phelps said in a mild but slightly dangerous voice. He turned back to Cora. "I don't believe it."
A few of the looks the colonials exchanged among themselves after surveying the state of their clothing suggested they didn't believe it either. Mr. Phelps brushed past them until he was close enough to embrace her. He had always been careful about showing too much affection for his commander's daughters, but it was no secret that he favored the elder. Cora peered uncertainly into the half-lit tree line. The semicircle of plainclothes soldiers behind him had grown from six to more than a dozen. They looked every bit as hard and weather-beaten as the former militiamen Jack and Ian had been leading to Cantuckee, but there was a wildness in their eyes the other colonials had lacked. It was almost, she thought irrationally, as though the frontier had possessed them instead of the other way around.
Ashby dropped his gaze. "My mistake," he said. He had the decency to look somewhat embarrassed, although the skepticism on his face indicated he thought the mistake rather easy to make. Cora tried to clear her head, a task made more difficult by the several questions competing for attention inside it. She settled for the one she hoped would sound the least rude.
"How have you been?"
Mr. Phelps hesitated. Dark circles sagged underneath his eyes, his cheeks had sunken into his face, and he bore the overall appearance of a man who had lost a great deal of weight in a very short amount of time. "I'm fine," he said, in a tone that implied his respect for her would drop several orders of magnitude if she believed him.
He glanced uneasily to one side. He seemed to want to continue the conversation in private, but before he moved away he looked at Alice, who was still standing in the same transfixed posture as she had when he had first appeared. He nodded over Cora's shoulder to Jack and Nathaniel and jerked his head in Alice's direction, as though he did not like the idea of leaving her alone. But Uncas seemed to have intercepted them. Appearing satisfied, Mr. Phelps tapped Cora's shoulder and led her to a more secluded area.
"Thank God you're alive," he said when they were out of earshot. "You have no idea how good it is to see you again." Cora started to return the compliment, but the rational part of her mind drowned out the reflex.
"You shouldn't be out here," she said, her confusion giving more forcefulness to her voice than usual.
"You think I am too feeble?" His lips forced a smile that did not reach his eyes.
"I think you are too old," Cora corrected him. "And I don't think much of a general who would send a doctor away from the infirmary." Mr. Phelps shrugged his shoulders in a thoroughly unconvincing attempt at nonchalance.
"General Webb feels the colonials are too valuable to risk losing every time they go off on one of their skirmishes. And I believe he found my presence at Edward…disruptive to morale."
"You, an agitator?" She tried to picture the mild-mannered physician stirring up discontent among the ranks. Under different circumstances the idea would have made her laugh, but another glance at the exhaustion in his face forced her to swallow the impulse. He rubbed his hands along his knees uncomfortably.
"We both know your father was a tyrant, Cora, but at least he knew how to rule. His superior turns a blind eye to anything questionable that goes on outside his war room."
"How long have you been…?" Her voice trailed off. He seemed to guess she was referring to his new travelling companions.
"Long enough," he said. "Forgive me. Most of the colonials at Edward are a decent sort, but this lot is an absolute nuisance on their best days."
"If they're so bad, I'm wonder that Webb doesn't dismiss them," Cora remarked. Mr. Phelps snorted.
"Don't think I haven't suggested it. No one would miss them if he did. But Webb thinks it's better to turn them loose every few weeks so they can vent their overactive spleens fighting the right kind of savage."
Cora shivered. "I suppose Webb would not be the kind to ask questions when they return," she concluded.
"He doesn't care as long as it keeps them from quarreling with the Mohawk. There are times I almost wish-" He stopped. He looked embarrassed, then apologetic at the line of thought he was apparently unwilling to finish. "I can't wait to get off this continent, Cora."
Cora fingered the hem of her skirt. "I'm sorry," she said. It did not feel like the right thing to say. She did not think there was a right thing to say, but long silences had always made her feel uncomfortable. The physician did not react one way or the other to her attempt at sympathy.
"You might advise your sister to keep her distance from the younger Mahican," he added in a lower voice.
Cora folded her arms into her shirt. There was slight tone of censure in his voice that she did not like, as though she had neglected her duty as an older sister. She considered pretending she had no idea what he was talking about, but she doubted he would believe her if she did, and she respected him too much to insult his intelligence like that. She bit her lip, wondering how much he knew or guessed about her relationship with Nathaniel. It surprised her to discover there were occasions on which she could remain silent. And, she reflected, there was really nothing she could say to close the gap their sudden reunion had thrown into light. He was inextricably tied to the old world, and she had aligned herself to the new. So she contented herself with a mute nod and shivered again.
THE ABRUPT RESTORATION OF THEIR numbers did not reassure Alice the way she would have expected it to. She was starting to learn that numbers did not guarantee safety, and in many cases they only served to jeopardize it. And these colonials made so much noise she could almost believe they wanted to be attacked.
There was a gloom in the sun as it lowered itself to the horizon, as though it were ashamed of its failure to stop the onset of winter. Trying to dispel the loneliness she usually felt in crowds, she brushed a stray hair behind her ear. Nathaniel seldom had anything to say to her. Captain Winthrop was generally more cheerful than his friend, but the nearness of Fort Edward had filled both men with silent anxiety. Uncas was silent as a rule. Still, for reasons beyond her comprehension, he seemed to have been deliberately avoiding her for the entire day. And Cora, while she had insisted on accompanying them, refused to tell her why and had spent most of the day walking beside Mr. Phelps. If any of the colonials came near her, she turned away with a coldness Alice found shocking. It was not like Cora to be so judgmental.
The sudden noises of halting to make camp filled her with a childish terror. Gathering in one large group made her introversion so much more noticeable. She supposed the social abandonment of her family and friends was understandable. It was preparation for what awaited her at Edward. From this point on she would have to make her own friends.
For now at least, it seemed her new acquaintance consisted of several vulgar, ill-educated frontiersmen. An instant sting of embarrassment followed that thought and the unjust prejudice behind it. Their companions were rough and a bit rude, but certainly not bad. After all, Captain Winthrop was a decent person. And without Cora to vouch for her, it would be easy for complete strangers to mistake shyness for snobbery. It was fault she would just have to overcome, that was all.
Alice scanned the terrain, trying to decide which of the colonials looked the most friendly and approachable. When that failed, she settled for the only one whose full name she could remember. Reaching for a courage she did not feel, she moved in his direction.
"Mister Ashby." The hesitance in her voice made the greeting sound more like a question. The settler glanced up at her through his unkempt blond hair. He looked surprised at her daring. For a moment Alice felt triumphant. Then she realized she had not thought of anything to say.
"You came from Fort Edward?" she asked after a moment of awkward silence, blushing immediately at the obviousness of the question.
"There and some other places," he said vaguely. She had the distinct impression Ashby was trying to bait her. She did not like being toyed with, so she decided this time to let him break the silence. Her companion, evidently discerning that his conversational ploy had failed, obliged.
"If I may say, Miss Munro, I was a great admirer of your father."
"Thank you, sir," she replied. There, that response was easy enough, she thought. The unexpected politeness made her rather happy to be proven wrong about him.
"Ghastly way to go. He was good man. He deserved better than what he got – though I guess the Hurons wouldn't have seen it that way."
"I suppose to them he was just another Englishman," Alice said uncertainly. That did not quite fit with everything she had seen, but he was a colonel. Perhaps the Hurons reserved special punishments for the leaders of their enemies. For some reason her response made Ashby laugh.
"I very much doubt that, Miss Munro," he said, without bothering to conceal his amusement.
"I'm sorry?"
He raised an eyebrow. Then he dug his foot into the ground in a posture that almost resembled thoughtfulness.
"I've heard about their ideas of war back in Europe. March onto a wide-open field, exchange a few volleys, call it day? Civilized warfare." He shook his head. "Only works if your enemy plays by civilized rules. And they don't out here… though you probably already know something about that." Ashby glanced at her in a way that made her feel very uncomfortable. She was starting to regret her spontaneous impulse to initiate conversation. Her companion did not appear to notice her uneasiness.
"Your father was smarter," he continued. "Much smarter than the higher-up bigwigs like Webb. And he wasn't afraid to do what was needed, if you take my meaning."
Alice swallowed. "I'm afraid I don't, sir," she said. She had a feeling she did not want to hear whatever came next, but she could see no tactful way to extract herself. Ashby, to her irritation, laughed again.
"Damn," he said. "You didn't honestly think your father could just fight the French at their forts, did you?" He peered at her curiously, as if to ascertain her age or, perhaps more accurately, her degree of naiveté. Alice flushed under the scrutiny. She did not know how to say so out loud, but she was sure it showed in her face that she had thought that and did not know what else she was supposed to have thought. Ashby broke the examination and regarded her with bemused sympathy. "How old are you, anyway?"
UNCAS HAD NEVER SPENT MUCH time pondering what his father had meant when he said English women made no sense. He had just accepted as a given that they were a different species, fellow inhabitants to be acknowledged when necessary and otherwise ignored. So it rather galled him that he could be transfixed by the irrational behavior of someone like Alice Munro. He could not understand why she would seek out the company of a man like Josiah Ashby. She clearly did not have any particular liking for him. What she was trying to prove or who she was trying to impress was beyond him. But as long as her companion did not do anything stupid, which Uncas thought would be asking a great deal, who she talked to was her own business.
It was not without some satisfaction, though, that he watched her suddenly straighten her shoulders and quit the settler's company. Uncas felt an even deeper satisfaction upon noting that he had to all appearances pissed her off. She was not paying much attention to where she was going. When she was roughly three steps away from crashing into him, he softly cleared his throat. She looked up. The shock left an odd combination of anger and surprise frozen on her face.
"Personal insult?" he ventured cautiously.
"It's nothing personal," she said coolly. "I hate anyone who lies about my father on principle."
Uncas was momentarily baffled. "I didn't know Ashby knew your father."
"Obviously he didn't, if he expects me to believe he would massacre dozens of innocent people." She crossed her arms over her chest. Her hands were buried beneath her shirt, but Uncas guessed that underneath her knuckles were white with suppressed rage. He searched for a way to diffuse the situation. Rather awkwardly, he put his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off and glared at him with a ferocity which he knew better than to take personally. "My father doesn't murder children."
Uncas dropped his hand. He was at a loss on what to do with this Alice. Of the two Munro sisters, he had always thought Cora had a monopoly on fury. But even in their anger they remained opposites. Cora's rage blazed like a wildfire that burned itself out when there was nothing left to consume. Alice's resembled the low thunder of a river dammed for years: deeper, quieter and infinitely less forgiving.
"You should forget it," he said finally. "Whatever grudge Magua had against your father doesn't make a difference now."
He caught himself a split second after the words had escaped his mouth. For one very wishful moment, he hoped that she might be oblivious enough not to notice. But the look on her face suggested she was only a few seconds behind him. She pressed her lips together, obviously thinking less about what he had said than what she would say next.
"I never said it had anything to do with Magua," she said slowly. She looked up at him with wide, confused eyes. He could not shut out those eyes, begging him to treat her like a woman and not a girl when they both knew a part of her always would be a girl.
"Don't lie to me," she said quietly. Uncas hesitated. A very large piece of him wanted to keep drawing this out. She would hate him soon enough. It was difficult not to feel contempt for her naïve hero worship of her father. But he had not wanted to be the one to break her.
"Please don't lie to me," she repeated. He knew where this would lead, and in spite of all his better judgment he could not deny her. It was, he supposed, a fitting end. Something so fragile and ephemeral could never have lasted in his world. She would return to her pompous, pampered relations and grow old surrounded by dozens of pompous, pampered grandchildren and he would be just one more in a history of men who had disillusioned her.
"Your father's men raided Magua's village and killed his family," he said, deciding a blunt answer would be best. He suffered another glance at her to see the effect of the announcement. Alice furrowed her eyebrows.
"I see," she said with a concentrated frown. "So my father couldn't stop them." The admission seemed to require a great deal of effort on her part. Uncas stared at her in amazement. He could not believe her self-imposed blindness, that she was still determined to look for a way to acquit him. He had no idea why she felt so devoted to a father who had probably never shown the same devotion to her. It was childish, a childishness he found both disarming and despicable.
"No. He was there, Alice."
Alice paled and looked down. If she had cried, or shouted at him, or burst into tears, he could have dealt with it. Or perhaps not, but those at least would have been normal reactions. He could have passed her off to her sister or someone more qualified to comfort her than he was. But her eyes remained dry and empty. They started to glaze over with a familiar dark void, and he knew she had withdrawn into a place where he could not reach her.
"Oh," she said. She stepped backwards. He started to extend his arm again but stopped when he remembered that he could not very well pull her out of an abyss that he had forced her into. She jerked away before he could complete the motion. Without speaking, she turned and ran in the opposite direction. As her figure shrank and vanished, he wondered if there was a name for the tainted feeling creeping from his chest to his fingertips and decided it was something akin to the feeling after murder.