Dawn on a Distant Shore by Sara Donati Read Free Book Online

out of town," Nathaniel said.
    "Somerville is in
Québec," confirmed Robbie. "I dinna ken for how lang."
    They looked at Iona,
who inclined her head to one side thoughtfully. "Governor Carleton will keep
him there for another week, I should imagine."
    Iona was, for all her
simplicity of self and home, the best source of information in Montréal. As a
young woman she had moved among the armies of three nations while they battled
each other for possession of the land; she had known the men who decided the
fate of Canada, and she knew them still. These days they came to sit before her
fire and talk, and she welcomed any friend of a friend who did not wear a Roman
collar: the Scots who ran the fur trade; the English who commanded the colony;
the French who lived in the shadow of the English and controlled the city's
goods and food supply. McTavish, McGill, Guy, Latour, Despr`es, Cruikshank, Gibb,
Carleton, Monk: they came singly or together to talk, and she gave them strong
ale and good food, and she listened.
    "Has Moncrieff
met Somerville?"
    Robbie let out a soft
laugh. "Aye, he has. But our Angus Moncrieff is no' on verra guid terms
wi' Pink George."
    Nathaniel had to grin
at Somerville's old nickname, but he did not want to be distracted by a
discussion of the man, his oddities or his faults, and so he turned the topic
to more practical matters. In a few minutes he had extracted from Robbie the
whole story of what had happened here, and it was as brief as he had expected:
Hawkeye had come to take Otter home, and they had both been arrested. The authorities
said they wanted Hawkeye for questioning about the Tory gold, but it was clear
to Robbie and Iona both that something else was at the bottom of it all.
    "What is it that
Somerville wants from them, then?" Nathaniel asked. "Do you have any
sense of it? Did he find out about Otter and Giselle, is that it?"
    Iona was sitting on a
small stool near the hearth with knitting in her lap, and she did not look up.
"He may suspect, but he only knows of his daughter what he chooses to see.
Which is very little."
    "Then why are my
father and Otter still in gaol?"
    Robbie spread out his
hands. "It's verra simple. Somerville canna risk Otter leavin' Montréal.
The governor wants the boy here, ye ken. Otter's the only road they've got to
Stone-Splitter."
    Nathaniel sat back and
rubbed his burning eyes with one hand, trying to make sense of it.
    Stone-Splitter was a
Kahnyen'kehâka sachem who had never given in to O'seronni ways, and for that
reason alone the English feared him above all others: he had a keen
understanding of their weaknesses, no need of their gifts, and no taste for
their whisky, and thus they had no way to control him. He was a warrior in the
ancient tradition, the kind they still told stories about, the kind whose furiosity
on the battlefield kept old soldiers jerking and muttering in their uneasy sleep.
And the young men of his village were trained in the same manner.
    Of all the
Kahnyen'kehâka sachem, Stone-Splitter was the only one who had refused to take
sides in the war for independence and as a result his people had survived where
others struggled. If the governor wanted Stone-Splitter's attention, it had to
be because he was arming himself for another war and hoped to have the sachem's
support and his warriors. Stone-Splitter was blood kin to Otter.
    Nathaniel turned to
Iona, and he saw that she had been watching him, and probably knew exactly what
was in his thoughts.
    "The smell of war
is in the air," she said. "But perhaps not for a few years yet."
    Another war. Men had
talked of it uneasily ever since the last one, for nobody quite believed they
had heard the last of the English king. And now here it was, within reach. The
urge to be away was stronger than ever.
    He said, "Once we
get Otter out of gaol, will it be hard to get him out of Montréal?"
Nathaniel was slow to meet Robbie's gaze, but he found no reproach there.
    "If ye're askin'
aboot Giselle, ye'd