Chapter 10
July 16th, 29 days later
Mingo went along. He had no choice. Heading for Canada, toward a British garrison, was starting to worry him. He kept his tension well hidden from the Indians around him. He raided along with them, more worried this time about truly hurting people. In the last raid, they had burned a cabin to the ground, housing a family of seven.
Mingo shot the first flaming arrow into the cabin. He heard screaming from the house, as he shot the second arrow. He prayed to both his Creator and his father's God that no one was hurt.
They kept going north, raiding as they went. Mingo managed to shoot, run, scream and hunt beasts as well as humans. During his years of friendship with Daniel, he had improved his shooting skills; amongst the raiders, no one noticed how often he missed his target. He provided plenty of game, he stole as well, but he never harmed anyone. No one questioned or challenged him. The week before, Eagle Heart sent White Beaver on a raiding expedition west with the main group. The children, women and two older men stayed behind in a new quickly raised camp.
Eagle Heart picked Mingo, along with 7 others and told them they were going into Canada, to trade some stolen furs and find a market for other stolen goods. Mingo wondered why he had been picked, but he nodded with pleasure at the 'honor' of the choice.
They had gone from the Hudson, to Lake Champlain, to the Richelieu and now, with the rapids coming up, the three canoes and nine Indians, were getting ready for portage. They would reach Fort Chambly within the hour. There was a settlement there, mostly all Canadian farmers; simple people used to dealing with harsh winters, bad crops and year after year of hardship. Under French King Louis, or under English King George III, did not matter; the only difference was the missing loved ones, buried in mass graves on battlefields of decades past. They knew Indians and how to deal with them. They knew the British and simply lived beside them.
Mingo knew what those other Indians knew. The British might not welcome the newest marauder. There was no other way for him but to hope for the best, while preparing for the worst.
The Americans had tried to seize Quebec City in 1776; they had control of Fort Chambly for nearly 2 years during that campaign. It was another reason the French-Canadian settlers stayed as far away from the Fort as possible. Which would have control next? Who would come to their defense?
When Mingo and his companions reached the fort at last, they saw the damage from the siege had not been completely fixed. Dragoons bearing rifles patrolled the river's edge in groups of six. They pointed their rifles at Mingo and the rest of the Indians.
Eagle Heart walked up to the British military leader and saluted briskly, as if he were army himself. He introduced himself and asked that their group be shown to General Brimley as soon as possible; they were bringing news of White Beaver's latest raid.
General Brimley was not available; his aide-de-camp, Captain George Clarkson was, however. He welcomed them into the fort, offering them food and drink in one of the largest rooms.
Eagle Heart and Captain Clarkson quickly left the group, and went toward another part of the fort. Mingo watched them go, noticing the subtle placement of extra guards near their door. He ate slowly; surreptitiously checking their surroundings. He had never been here before but he recognized French architecture when he saw it. This fort was not made to resist cannons; the rapids around Chambly had probably convinced the French who built it, that this fort was accessible only by water. Anyone inside the fort under guard could not escape easily.
When Clarkson and Eagle Heart came back, nearly half of the Indians had dozed off here and there. Mingo himself had slid to the floor resting his body as well, while remaining alert. He couldn't remember seeing so many redcoats together since he left England in 1764.
He should not have been surprised; but perhaps he was, a little. As more time passed, Mingo had begun to suspect that something was very wrong behind his presence in Quebec.
Clarkson, Eagle Heart weren't alone when they entered the large room.
Henry Hartford was with them, and he was wearing a British major's uniform.
July 17, 1777, evening.
His cell was small, dark and foul-smelling. Mingo felt ill soon after being confined. A guard brought him water more suitable for scrubbing than drinking, but he drank the foul water anyway. No food was offered. The only light came from a small window high in the wall where the moon could be seen. He had no visitors.
Henry had approached him sneering the day before "You know that you are a traitor to the crown, Mingo. It is my duty to bring traitors to trial."
"A pleasure for you, I am sure, Henry. Does your father know about this … choice of clothing on your part?" Mingo waved at Henry's uniform.
"Dear Father has no clue. He sent me to England to live with my maternal grandfather, to receive the best schooling and to learn of my true heritage. Unlike you, I didn't turn my back on it. I am a loyal British citizen. You are nothing but a filthy half-breed traitor. You could have had title and land. You chose to betray all that Lord Dunsmore did for you when he openly acknowledged you, not just as his son, but as his heir."
Mingo waited silently. He would not be baited. He wanted to know how much deception Henry's father had suffered. How safe would Daniel be in Quebec City? He had seen Henry Hartford's kind many times in his life. Henry would give himself away at some point.
What Mingo had refused to consider was the pain inside, the pain that was infusing slowly.
He would deal with the pain of betrayal, accept it and move on. No, what gnawed at him was the despicable pain of total and utter rejection.
Henry Hartford, old friend, had simply rejected Mingo.
And this was worse than imprisonment and fear of death.
July 18, 1777, midday.
Jean-Marie Gagnon came into the fort to trade; he had plenty of furs from last winter's traps. He was known in the area as the man who came and went. It was said he had a family near Montreal, a wife and children; no one knew for sure. He was a loner, showing up unexpectedly now and then.
He was not happy with all the Redcoats around, and he made his feelings known. As if anyone who knew Jean-Marie Gagnon didn't know this already.
He moored his canoe a few miles up north; the rapids were impossible to canoe. He carried all his furs on his back.
He had sworn the King's oath, as had most Canadians, but he made no effort to learn the redcoats' language beyond what he needed to trade. However, he spoke many Indian tongues and was always welcomed by the Hurons and the Montagnais, with whom he had a long friendship.
Jean-Marie Gagnon entered the trading post, opposite the fort. This was a Canadian stronghold, made up of Canadian militia and French forces. He knew the layout very well, he had been militia himself. Some said he had fought on the Plains of Abraham, but none knew for sure. Jean-Marie was the stock of legend.
The sergeant on guard was not as welcoming as the Indians and Canadians settlers of the Chambly settlements, but he let him through. Orders had come from higher up to avoid trouble with those Canadians.
As he entered the trading post, Jean-Marie was greeted by old acquaintances and laughter. Apple cider was placed in front on him as soon as he dumped his furs on the bench. The storekeeper's assistant started to go through them counting; all were good, none were refused.
Once the bargain was made, he ordered a second cup of cider and a bowl of hot soup, and sat down with another man.
Mathurin Bélanger had settled in Carignan, before the Conquest. He had also sworn allegiance to the British king in exchange for his land's title. In their youth, the two men had gone trapping many times in the Pointe-Aux-Lacs area. Mathurin found he enjoyed farming, while Jean-Marie kept on trapping.
During the course of quiet conversation, for Canadians knew better than to trust the English conquerors, that Jean-Marie heard the latest news.
There was an Indian prisoner in the garrison cell, and it was said he was a British traitor.
When the French built the fort, they placed an oubliette under one of the supply cellars. The British, however, preferred to put their prisoners in regular cells, so they picked a room they felt could be easily converted; it had a small window, large enough for a man to go through but very high and facing the Richelieu river. Mingo was tall, but not quite that tall. He could not reach the window, he wasn't even sure he could pass through it. He hated confinement; it had very likely started on his passage to England, on the ship that took him away from his native land. It was the first time in his life he hadn't had freedom to come and go, the first time he learned what it meant to live in the white man's universe, with their rules. His father made it a priority that his son would not only catch up with boys his age, but would excel in all subjects. Mingo had often been confined in rooms, studying alone, despite the lack of fresh air. Reading had become a solace of sorts, but he still loathed being confined.
He would find a way out. He had to.
When the door opened, Mingo was ready. So were they. Two young soldiers came in first, holding their rifles ready and primed, a third followed quickly. Mingo could do nothing to prevent their entry, or to divert them.
Henry followed the soldiers. With him, there was a stocky man in his mid-thirties wearing dirty buckskins. There was something disturbing about the fifth man.
"Mingo, why don't you go into the corner?" said Henry, pointing toward the wall opposite the window. "You wouldn't want one of these soldiers to accidentally shoot you, old chap?"
Mingo obeyed quickly and silently, while remaining vigilant.
A sixth man came in, carrying a table and a stool. He came back shortly with quills, ink and a basket of bread, fruit and cheese. A young woman followed him with a pitcher and a pewter cup. She left too.
The three soldiers remained at attention, their rifles pointing straight at Mingo's heart. He stood tall, awaiting Henry's next words. Mingo's attention was not on Henry; he kept his eyes on the dirty buckskinned man.
Henry sat on the stool and extended a hand toward the filthy man. "Your knife, Pierre, s'il vous plait." Pierre handed him his knife, after wiping it on his trousers. Henry shook in head in dismay and used his own breeches to wipe the dirty knife. "Hungry, Mingo?" he taunted, as he sliced a piece of cheese, which he slapped on some bread. "My men told me you refused the meal they offered."
Mingo smiled, "Meal, Henry? Pigs wouldn't have eaten it."
"I thought you thrived on primitive fare, old chap; perhaps I was wrong," Henry mocked.
Mingo remained silent.
Henry took an apple from the basket and threw it toward Mingo. The Cherokee caught it easily, but made no move to eat it. He was still studying Pierre.
He was not surprised when Pierre grabbed the apple away from him by twisting his elbow viciously in the wrong direction. Before Pierre could break his arm, Mingo punched him. One of the soldiers hit Mingo squarely on the head with his rifle butt.
Pierre smiled.
Mingo fell down.
Pierre began to kick and punch him. Not a word was exchanged.
When Henry rose from his stool, he had written a long letter. He paid no attention to Mingo's beating. The couple came back to gather everything out of the cell; everything but the ink, the quill and the stool.
Mingo was left unconscious in the corner of his cell, oblivious to everything.
The cell was dark when Mingo regained consciousness. The moon was high and there was some light. He stood slowly, taking stock of his injuries. His head throbbed, his hair was thick with blood from the cut on his forehead and his ribs felt sore. He would be bruised in the morning. He was thirsty, and hungry.
Curious about the letter, he lifted the piece of paper to the moonlight.
The letter Henry had written was an admission of treason, using Mingo's English name. It was a confession of treason to the Crown, awaiting his signature.
Mingo guessed that Henry would withhold food and water and have him beaten as often as required, until he signed the letter or died. Either way, it was his death sentence. He knew then that Henry had something which he could and would use against Lord Dunsmore. Mingo and his father didn't see eye to eye, but they were bound by a code of honor that both respected. Mingo also believed that his father had agreed at last to let his son be what and who he was and wanted to be. Mingo wondered what kind of bargaining power Henry thought he had. For the moment, Mingo had to forego finding out more. Henry had just made a huge mistake.
With the stool, Mingo could reach the window.
He moved the stool, and testing its strength against his weight, stood on it. Yes, he could crawl through the window. The water was heavy, the current strong. Mingo wondered if he should go before someone realized the stool was still in the room. How could he swim the current in the condition he was in? Where would he go? North toward Daniel, who didn't know Henry was manipulating them, or south toward the Continental Army? Warning Colonel Hartford was as important as warning Daniel.
But first, escape.
Mingo stretched, making sure he could climb, jump and swim the current.
Then, his mind made up, he took the piece of paper, turned it over and wrote a message for Henry on it.
Taking a deep, long breath, he went back to the stool, pulled himself up to the window, and jumped.
Mathurin and Jean-Marie were sitting by the river's edge, eating by their fire.
"Vraiment? André et sa femme ont vraiment laissé le banc dans sa cellule .» Mathurin asked Jean-Marie for the second time.
« Yes, they did. It's up to him now to jump or not. And if he does, we'll find out why the British wanted him and if he needs our help. You know what I think of Redcoats making prisoners!" murmured Jean-Marie. Their fire was very small, barely visible and without smoke, and their voices kept low. They were trying to avoid attention while standing guard by the swift current of the Richelieu.
"How long do we wait?" wondered Mathurin, although he knew the answer. If the Indian prisoner didn't escape during the night, it would be too late for him after that.
Jean-Marie had asked André's wife to leave something inside the cell for the Indian prisoner to use to reach the window. It was a risk for the Canadian couple who worked in the British fort kitchen, but one that might be overlooked in the search that would follow. And André owed his life to Jean-Marie a few times over. A bullet meant for André had been wasted on the Plains of Abraham when Jean-Marie had thrown himself on top of his compatriot.
So Mathurin and Jean-Marie waited silently by the north edge of the fort, where the currents were heavier still, with a canoe and some provisions.
It was Mathurin who heard it first, a hard splash. They got up and walked to the edge of the river. An Indian was trying desperately to stay afloat in the fast flowing river.
Jean-Marie made a quick decision. He tied a rope around his waist, threw the other end of it to Mathurin, and dove after the Indian.
Mingo sat propped against a maple tree. He was still shivering. His clothes were spread on rocks near the fire to dry and he was covered in a thick woolen blanket.
When Jean-Marie jumped into the Richelieu to reach him, Mingo was starting to go under. He swam strongly at first, keeping his head above the water. Mingo had always been a strong swimmer, but he was hurt, the current was very swift, the water very cold. He hadn't eaten in over twenty-four hours. He tried to reach the river's edge, but there was an eddy that kept pushing him deeper, and he fought against its pull. He tried to avoid being battered on the rocks spread throughout the rapids.
Mingo was unaware of the two Canadians nearby. He was going under for the last time, when a strong arm grabbed him by the hair. He felt no pain; just glad of the feel of air reaching his nearly empty lungs. Coughing and waterlogged, he was no help at all. He was held more tightly by the shoulders, and suddenly found himself in shallow water. The man who held him let him go, clearly exhausted himself and other arms reached for him.
He was barely aware of his surroundings. He had no recollection of being undressed. He continued to shiver.
"Ne touche pas à ta blessure, l'Indien ; je vais te faire un bandage, he heard one of the men say.
He had spoken French once, back in England, but he was still disoriented. "Parlez-vous Anglais, monsieur?" he asked hopefully. "Thank you for saving me from drowning."
"No, but I speak a few Indian languages. I understand you, l'Indien," answered the man, handing him a cup.
Mingo eagerly took the cup. To his pleasure, it was hot coffee. He took a small sip. His throat hurt; the hot beverage made the pain worse, but he was very thirsty.
"Pourquoi m'avez-vous aidé? Mon nom est Mingo. » asked Mingo, remembering a little French, asking why he had been helped.
"Jean-Marie Gagnon, à ton service Mingo. Et avec moi, Mathurin Bélanger, mon vieux compagnon et nous n'aimons pas les anglais. Et aider leurs prisonniers à s'enfuir nous fait plaisir." Jean-Marie said as he offered him a piece of meat
July 19, 1777, Evening.
Jean-Marie cleaned and bandaged Mingo's forehead, covering his wound with a bandana. He bound Mingo's ribs to make him more comfortable. As Mingo grew warmer, hunger and thirst satisfied, he dozed a little.
Mingo awoke when the sun started to shine brightly in the sky. The Canadians were still at his side, though the fire had gone out. Mingo felt better, though bruised and sore.
"Good morning, gentlemen," Mingo said. "May I repeat my thanks for saving me from drowning?"
Mathurin handed him a cup of cool, fresh water and shrugged away the gratitude.
Jean-Marie said, "You talk mighty funny for an Indian. I remember the regiment commandant I served under in Montreal spoke just like you. Why does an Indian sound like an English officer?"
Mingo struggled with Jean-Marie's words; he spoke quickly and the accent was unfamiliar. Mingo said, "I was educated in England, and learned French in school." He didn't add that a few of his father's acquaintances were nobles from the Court of King Louis.
"It seems like an extraordinary coincidence that you happened to be nearby when I was drowning. Was I simply lucky?" Mingo commented as he was putting his dry clothes on. He braided his hair as well as he could.
Although Mingo's nearly flawless French surprised both men, they understood his question and laughed heartily. Mingo wondered why.
"No coincidence, l'Indien. How did you manage to climb out that window?" asked Jean-Marie, still laughing.
Mingo didn't say a word, as he looked at them. It dawned on him. The stool had been left behind deliberately, and they had something to do with it.
"The couple left the stool behind in my cell. Did you arrange it?" asked Mingo.
"Bright Indian, I see. I have many friends among the Hurons; they are also very bright." Mathurin laughed. "Mingo, Jean-Marie did."
"Why help me? You don't even know me." Mingo was very curious; grateful but wary. Was this part of Henry's devious plot?
"You were a prisoner. That's why. I don't like the British putting people in jail. Don't you know anything about them? About us? Where are you from, Mingo? A Canadian would understand why we would free a British prisoner!" Now Jean-Marie wondered who this Indian really was. Perhaps he was part of a plot to catch those who fought back against the Redcoats.
Mingo was quiet, thinking. It was up to him to answer first, if he wanted to know more. He told Mathurin and Jean-Marie all about the 'mission' he was on with his friends, Daniel Boone and Rain Cloud, where they came from, what they hoped to achieve, how they had been betrayed and where Mingo stood at this point.
"Is Daniel Boone your friend? The Redcoats have a huge bounty on him. Some Canadians would sell their souls for this money. Your tormentor was Pierre Bissonet; he would hunt your friend and skin him alive for half the bounty on his head. Your life is in danger too. You should head back toward the American Colonies. If you take my canoe, we'll guide you south and put you in the river." Jean-Marie said matter-of-factly.
"I think I would rather head toward Quebec to warn my friends, and help them if I can," countered Mingo.
"Help them fight off a British plot? Sounds like fun, if you ask me."
It was decided. They would portage for four miles, and if the river's edge was safe, they would canoe toward the Sorels Island first. If not, they would walk to Montreal along trails Mathurin and Jean-Marie knew.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Translation
"Vraiment? André et sa femme ont vraiment laissé le banc dans sa cellule .» Mathurin asked Jean-Marie for the second time. "Really?Andre and his wife have left a stool in his cell"
"Ne touche pas à ta blessure, l'Indien ; je vais te faire un bandage, Don't touch your wound, Indian he heard one of the men say.
"Jean-Marie Gagnon, à ton service Mingo. Et avec moi, Mathurin Bélanger, mon vieux compagnon et nous n'aimons pas les anglais. Et aider leurs prisonniers à s'enfuir nous fait plaisir." Jean-Marie said as he offered him a piece of meat. Jean-Marie Gagnon, at your service Mingo. And with me, Mathurin Belanger, my old companion. We don't like the English and helping out their prisoners to escape makes us quite happy