Confederation
Bjorn Hasseler
Grantville
March 1635
“Thanks. You all have it under control here.” Garland Alcom spoke loudly as he emerged from the office. He retrieved his own bag lunch and looked for a seat at one of the tables in the front room, noting some smiles and pleased looks. The workers at one table waved him to an open seat.
“Herr Alcom.”
“Just Garland is fine. How are you all doing?” he asked in Amideutsch. Garland learned names and shook hands all around before sitting down.
After a few minutes of small talk, Garland said, “How is work going here?”
“Gut.” Fine. The rest of the answers were variations on that theme. “Anything you want to know?”
Garland answered three or four questions about the company, which was doing fine. He was troubled that there weren’t more. Most veteran employees would have given management the third degree. But those who took jobs making percussion caps were often down on their luck and hesitant to make waves. Garland had a lot of experience with employees like that since the Ring of Fire and had learned to recognize them. He couldn’t put all of it into words, but many of these men and women had that look about them.
One man with a deep tan sitting at the next table did not. While Garland considered how to draw him into conversation, the lunch table discussion began to return to what he supposed was its normal level. The assassination of Mayor Dreeson and Reverent Wiley, the riots, and the crash of the vice president’s plane were the primary topics.
“Who is the Vice President?” That was Johann Lämmerhirt.
“We just voted a month ago, dummkopf! It is Helene Gundelfinger.” Garland remembered that speaker’s name was Willi Friederaun.
“Who is she?”
“Some businesswoman. Married to an up-timer, I think.”
Eyes turned to Garland. He shrugged. “Yeah, she married Walter Goodluck. I’ve met him a couple times, but I don’t really know him. He was from out of town, just working on a construction project in Grantville when the Ring of Fire hit.” He shook his head. “Not such good luck, if you ask me. But Walter seems like a stand-up guy. He’s an Indian, you know. Navajo, I think.”
“A what?”
“Navajo. They’re one of the Indian tribes in North America.”
He had everyone’s attention, including the man he’d been intending to draw into a conversation.
A bell rang. It sounded like an honest-to-goodness school bell, and everyone quickly got up from the table. Garland watched them go.
“Stop.” He pointed to the man whom he’d been studying. “Komm her, bitte.”
The other workers, especially those Garland had tentatively pegged as down on their luck, quickly left the front room. They were pretty enthusiastic about going back to work. Garland suspected they wanted to get out of the line of fire if the big boss had a problem with somebody.
The man approached Garland with no apprehension visible in his face or in his eyes. But something was off about how he moved.
“Please walk to the end of the next table and back,” Garland requested. The man’s eyebrows may have lifted a fraction, but he complied. “Herr . . . ” Garland had lost the man’s name.
“Weston.”
“Herr Weston, you are sliding around in your boots. You could slip. That’s dangerous when you’re making percussion caps.”
Weston grimaced. “These new boots premade to standard sizes do not fit me. They are tight in the toes and wide in the heel.”
“Oh.” Garland remembered hearing that before. Where was it? Oh, back up-time. A fellow mail carrier over in Fairmont . . .
Garland Alcom slapped himself in the forehead. Here he was, trying to read the company’s employees, and he’d missed the obvious. That wasn’t a tan . . . .
“You’re an Indian, aren’t you, Weston?”
“I assure you, I was not born in India.” There might have been the faintest hint of a smile on Weston’s face.
“Native American, then.”
“I am Sakaweston of the Wampanoag.”
“Where do you live?”
“What you call Massachusetts.” Weston pronounced the name a little differently than Garland was used to. “But that is a different tribe.”
Garland blurted out his next question. “What are you doing in Europe?”
“I was abducted.”
“What?”
“In 1611, the English captain Edward Harlow sailed along the coast and seized us one, two, three at a time. Twenty-nine, all together. I lived in England for many years. Some of the others went back. I joined an English regiment and fought in Bohemia.”
Garland Alcom shook his head. “Have you been fighting your way across Europe ever since?”
“Until Alte Veste.”
“What are you doing now?”
“Learning how to make percussion caps.”
“Oh. Wow.” Garland literally rocked back on his heels.
“How did you know I am Wampanoag? What you call Indian.”
“I used to deliver mail. I knew one of the carriers over in Fairmont. He had to order custom shoes because his heels slid around just like yours do. He was Cherokee.” Alcom shook his head. “So . . . percussion caps. Are you planning to take that home?”
Sakaweston did not answer.
“Because percussion caps are too advanced for North America right now. One cap, one shot. Use a flintlock. The flint will be good for a hundred shots. But you’re going to need gunpowder, too.”
Sakaweston’s eyebrows raised.
“You know what I plan, and you offer advice?”
“Yeah. What else do you need?”
“I need to talk with Walter Goodluck.”
Bamberg
Sunday, May 24, 1637
Spring had arrived, and Walter Goodluck felt a need to be outside. After Sunday services—while Seventh-Day Adventist himself, he felt a responsibility to accompany his wife to the Lutheran church on Sundays—he’d left the city for a walk in the countryside. It was still cool to his thinking, but he’d grown up on the reservation in Arizona.
When he returned to the family’s townhouse, Walter greeted the mounted constable at the door in Amideutsch.
“Gut tag, Franz.”
“Gut tag, Herr Goodluck. The children are inside, but your wife was called to the communications center.”
Walter raised an eyebrow at that. Helene tried to avoid government business on Sundays. “Dank, Franz. I’ll head over there.”
Walter quickened his pace. Helene probably had to talk to either Grantville or Magdeburg or both about some new crisis. He supposed it could have something to do with the Ottoman War. Or the Polish War.
One of the SoTF National Guardsmen at the door of the communication center checked with someone inside and then held the door for Walter.
He found his wife and a couple of officers seated at a table surrounded by chaos. At least a third of the radio operators spaced around the perimeter of the room were frantically scribbling down what they heard over their crude earpieces. Another third or so tapped away at their keys, sending replies back out. Two aides collected the transcribed messages and handed operators the replies to send. Another attempted to keep all the printed message forms in front of Helene and the officers in order.
“Walter!” his wife exclaimed. “The French have attacked the Plymouth Colony.”
“The Pilgrims?” he blurted out. “When?”
“May ninth.”
Walter Goodluck froze. Barely more than two weeks ago. “There’s a radio in North America?” he demanded.
“Dutch. New Amsterdam. Here is the interesting part. It may mean more to you than it did to me. The message originated with Massasoit.”
“Ousamequin.” Walter’s correction came automatically. “Massasoit is his title. Great sachem.” He stressed the second syllable and pronounced the last vowel as a long e.
The President of the State of Thuringia-Franconia nodded her understanding. “He sent a runner to New Amsterdam. Two, running together. One stopped to brief . . . ” She struggled with the name. “Sassacus. Sassacus allowed the other to continue to New Amsterdam.”
“Whoa,” Walter breathed. “Why is that significant?”
“Eastern Woodlands isn’t my area,” Walter warned his wife. “We were all Native Americans, but they’re Algonquians. I’m Diné. But Sakaweston told me what things were like in 1611. The Wampanoag and the Pequot weren’t allies. They’re rivals. It’s not that different from the adel.”
“So if . . . Sassacus is helping Mas—Ousamequin . . . ” The President shook her head. “New Amsterdam radioed Vlissingen. Vlissingen sent to Magdeburg, Magdeburg to Grantville, and Grantville to us. Word will be getting out.”
“How soon?”
“The evening news in Grantville.” Helene sounded annoyed at that. Walter smirked, just a little. He couldn’t help it. “Just like up-time.”
“Thank you very much.”
“What are the USE and the SoTF going to do?” Walter asked.
“I am talking to Ed and Estuban. There is not much we can do. We do not have enough information about what is happening, and we certainly do not have forces we can send.” Helene Gundelfinger looked at her husband strangely. “Why?”
“Some of the Pilgrims are dead, and as much as I’m Diné, I’m an American, too. I’ll arrange for an acting manager at work and a train ticket. It could take a few days. I need to talk with Sakaweston.”
Ruins of Fort Sovereignty
(up-time Fort Saybrook, Connecticut)
Tuesday, August 18, 1637
George Fenwick grabbed one end of another board that could be salvaged from a mostly burned house in what had been the Sovereignty settlement. The river towns, refugees, and tribes had joined forces long enough to turn back the French when a few dozen of them had ventured upriver. But they’d lost the fort and most of the settlement and too many people who hadn’t evacuated in time. Now the survivors were salvaging what they could.
A faint yell came from down by the water. Fenwick listened carefully but couldn’t make out the words. One of the lookouts came pounding up the path to where the survivors were working.
“Sail! Sail!”
George Fenwick dropped the board he was carrying. “French? Get your weapons!”
The two dozen or so men working with him raced for the muskets leaning against trees or unburned fences not far away. Then they took up positions near the shore.
A lookout reported to Colonel Fenwick and Governor John Winthrop the Younger.
“She’s a big one—and I know that fishing boat that’s with her. That’s the boat Richard More’s been using to bring in people from Sowams. But she raised colors I’ve never seen before. Red-and-white stripes. Blue in one corner.”
Fenwick exchanged glances with Winthrop and shrugged.
Soon the ship was close enough to lower a boat. When the boat touched bottom, four men quickly hopped out and splashed the last few steps to shore. The boat’s crew quickly shoved off and began rowing back to their ship.
The four new arrivals headed unerringly toward Winthrop and Fenwick. “Hallo!”
“That’s far enough!” Fenwick called out. He’d seen that two of the men had muskets slung over their shoulders. Now he saw something at one man’s hip that had to be a small firearm of some sort. The other two, however . . . “You two!”
The two men approached Fenwick and Winthrop.
“Good day,” one of them said. “I am the Reverend Thomas Shepard. This is my colleague, the Reverend John Wheelwright.”
“Good day to you both. Colonel George Fenwick. This is Governor John Winthrop the Younger.” Once the greetings were completed, Shepard’s eyes cut toward the burned fort. “The French?”
“Aye, but let us meet your two companions first. Are they friend or foe?”
“Would-be friends to us English,” Wheelwright replied. “If we still call ourselves English . . . ” Winthrop muttered. “Governor!” Wheelwright exclaimed.
The two men came forward, neither touching a weapon. One of Fenwick’s nearby men exclaimed, “You’ve brought us two more Indians! Why?”
“Say rather, they brought us,” Shepard said. He nodded to the two.
“I am Sakaweston of the Wampanoag, taken from Nohono—what you call Nantucket—in 1611 by the English captain Edward Harlow. I have fought in the European wars, and I return to my people.”
“I am Walter Goodluck of the Diné. I was born in the desert two thousand miles southwest of here in the year of our Lord 1966 . . . up-time.”
Dorchester (up-time Windsor, Connecticut)
Thursday, August 20, 1637
Edward Winslow leaned back as men continued to squabble. All wanted to have their say. Well, that was reasonable, he supposed. What was not was almost everyone’s tendency to revisit ground that had already been covered.
John Mason was finally winding up his speech. “In any alliance to march upon the French, Dorchester must be the senior partner.”
True enough, Edward thought, if by Dorchester one meant everyone gathered along the Connecticut River. But if one meant just the initial party led by Robert Ludlow and Reverend John Warham . . . well, the band of refugees Edward himself had led out of Plymouth town outnumbered them. So did John Alden’s Duxbury band. The Scituate and Marshfield bands were smaller. Then there was the Stiles party that had come soon after Ludlow and Warham, more recent Puritan refugees, the other river towns, and even the Dutchmen in Fort Hope a few miles downriver. Moreover, a decision ought not to be made without the men from Sovereignty who had already paid such a steep price.
Sure enough, Reverend Thomas Hooker rose to defend Newtowne, a new settlement downriver by Fort Hope. John Oldham would be next, asserting the primacy of Watertown, Winslow thought sardonically.
The door to Council Hall—as people had begun calling the building—unexpectedly opened, and Thomas Stiles entered.
Hooker paused, and Henry Stiles addressed his younger brother. “Thomas?”
“If it please the assembly, the ship Griffin has arrived from Europe. With passengers. Governor Winthrop and Colonel Fenwick brought them here.”
He stepped aside, and Governor John Winthrop the Younger entered Council Hall.
“I apologize for interrupting the deliberations.” Winthrop’s words were smooth and polished. “We have a guest from Europe. I think we should hear what he has to say.”
Captain John Mason stood. “Is Chehab back?”
“No.” As Winthrop found a seat, another man entered Council Hall. He was tall, dark-complected, and wore the same strange clothing a few of them had seen the Chehabs wear the previous year. He strode to the front of the room.
“My name is Walter Goodluck. I come here from the United States of Europe.”
“Do you bring aid?”
“Yes. The Griffin is at the mouth of the Connecticut River, unloading food and supplies. We’ll need men to help move that food here.”
“Sir, we are in your debt.” Edward Winslow rose to his feet. “I will find men at once.”
“I will see to it, Edward.” Another man rose to his feet. “I’ll ask for volunteers.”
“Thank you, John.”
“John?” Goodluck asked. “May I ask your surname?”
The man had already been moving toward the door. He stopped and faced the newcomer. “I’m John Alden.”
“After you have organized the volunteers, would you stay, sir? You are one of the men I am charged to speak with.”
“I had thought to carry grain myself, but . . . certainly. I am merely a cooper turned farmer. No one important.”
“Please, if you would remain in Dorchester yourself.”
Alden considered Goodluck for a moment and then nodded slowly. “I will stay.”
Captain Mason spoke up. “Goodluck, you say you represent this United States of Europe, but you look like an Indian yourself.”
Goodluck smiled. “There is a reason for that. I am of the Diné tribe, whom white men call the Navajo.”
“Never heard of them.”
“We live two thousand miles away, in the desert to the southwest. I was working in Grantville when the Ring of Fire hit.”
“Why can you speak for this United States of Europe when Chehab could not?”
“In part because the USE now has Chehab’s report and a better idea of what is happening here. We know about the battle in Plymouth. Massasoit Ousamequin sent a runner to the Dutch in New Amsterdam.”
“That’s right,” John Alden recalled.
“The Dutch sent a radio message to Europe. We sailed three weeks later.” Walter Goodluck took a moment to consider how he was going to say the next part. “The Chehabs were scouting for President Piazza of the State of Thuringia-Franconia. Since then we have had elections, and Edward Piazza is now the prime minister of the United States of Europe. Circumstances give us a few more options than the Chehabs had.”
“What we need are troops to throw the French out!” That was Thomas Hooker again.
“Be careful what you wish for.” Goodluck smiled. “Oh, it sounds like a good idea. But it was done up-time. The English and the French struggled for control of this part of North America. There were four wars, and in the fourth, the English drove the French from the continent. Your colonies were bigger then, and there were thirteen of them. The English taxed them to pay for those troops. The colonies had no representatives in Parliament and had been left more or less on their own up to that point. One thing led to another, and the colonies declared independence and formed the United States of America.”
“This sounds like a good idea to me!”
“Forgive me, sir. I don’t know everyone yet.”
“John Endecott. England has abandoned us. I say we make our own way.”
“You will all have to work together.” Goodluck took a deep breath. “We want something from you, of course.”
“What is that?” Endecott demanded, although half a dozen other voices were no more than a beat behind him.
“Don’t drive out the tribes and take their land this time.” A hubbub of protests began immediately.
Endecott’s was perhaps the loudest. “We have a God-given right—!”
“No, you don’t.” Walter Goodluck spoke over him in a harsher manner than he had intended. “I stand before you as a Christian and a Native American—an Indian—and I tell you that your power did not bring very many of us to God. Those of us who believe did so because people came and shared God with us. You know, like the New Testament says to.” Walter held up a hand, as much to remind himself to tone down the sarcasm as to quiet anyone else. More softly, he said, “Are John Eliot and Thomas Mayhew here? I would speak with them about this.”
A few minutes of mutual checking established that those two men had not come to Dorchester. “We need them,” Goodluck stated. “You need them.”
Edward Winslow rose. “We need time to absorb this, sir. But I must ask. Do the Indians know?” Thomas Shepard spoke up. “They are learning right now, I should think. This United States of Europe sent two Indians.”
“Sakaweston made his own decision to return,” Goodluck said. “He was abducted from Nantucket in 1611 and taken to England. From there he went to mainland Europe and fought in the Thirty Years’ War. I met him in Grantville in 1635. We agreed he would speak to the tribes, and I would speak to you. No favoritism.”
He let that hang in the air for a moment. Then he said, “I think all of you should discuss this. I will make myself available if you have questions.”
* * *
A couple of lads showed Sakaweston to the Indian camp. “Which tribe?” one of the them asked.
The white one, Sakaweston noted. That was interesting. “Wampanoag.”
“Massasoit Ousamequin is there,” the native lad said. “We will take you.”
“My thanks.”
Sakaweston was aware they passed warriors in the tree line. When he had just glimpsed the camp, two more stepped in his way.
“Who are you?”
“I am Sakaweston, taken from Nohono many years ago. I have returned from Europe and would tell Massasoit Ousamequin and his pniesesok what I saw there.”
One of the men nodded toward the rifle Sakaweston had slung over his shoulder. “Your weapon?”
“An example of their weapons.”
One of the men led him to a longhouse. The other trailed him. Sakaweston noted with approval that two other warriors took their places without needing to be told.
Inside, a number of warriors gathered around the second of three stone hearths. Several were seated on blankets. The central figure appeared middle-aged and powerfully built. His face was painted a dark red, and a string of white beads hung around his neck.
“Massasoit Ousamequin.”
The great sachem looked at him in surprise.
“Massasoit Ousamequin, I am Sakaweston. You may not know me personally—”
A Wampanoag seated not far to Massasoit Ousamequin’s left held up his hand. “I recognize you, Sakaweston.”
“Epenow!”
The other man, as powerfully built as Massasoit Ousamequin, smiled broadly. “So, you have found your way back from England.”
“No. I went to the wars in Europe. Years later, I came to Grantville, the town from the future.”
“The People from the Sky.”
Sakaweston frowned. “I do not know them by that name. They called themselves Americans or West Virginians, for their town was west of the English colony Virginia. All others call them up-timers.” He inclined his head to Massasoit Ousamequin. “Great Sachem, their leaders give you their thanks. The messenger you sent to the Dutch reached New Amsterdam where there is a powerful radio—a machine that can send messages across the sea. They knew of the French attack on Plymouth town sixteen days after it took place.”
“It is as that Narragansett said,” said the Wampanoag to Massasoit Ousamequin’s right. A single glance told Sakaweston this man was a fearsome warrior and probably a pniese.
“Did they send you?” Massasoit Ousamequin asked.
“They contacted me because they knew I would want to return now. The ship they call Griffin brings a few more Puritans every year.” He paused as heads wearing grim expressions nodded. “It has a few more this year, too. But the up-timers hired the ship and sent food and information.”
Sakaweston paused for effect.
“They sent two of us. The other man is Diné, a tribe I never heard of that lives in the lands far to the southwest, where the Spanish are. He is an up-timer.”
Massasoit Ousamequin stopped him there. “One of the People from the Sky is one of us? Just one?
Or more?”
“A man from this town Grantville went away to the southwest. It is a hot, dry place, and the tribes there live differently than we do. He married a Diné woman. They returned to his home in Grantville and had three children. She told her family there was work, and her cousin came to the town. He was working there when Grantville came to our time. She died the year after. I have not met her children, although I am told the son is a good soldier and the younger daughter is a skilled maker of white men’s machines.
“Many people from our time went to Grantville. It is not as big as London—Epenow, you know what I say—but I was just one more. No one knew I was Wampanoag until two years ago. He kept silent at my request, but arranged for me to speak with the woman’s cousin. His name is Walter Goodluck.”
“A white man’s name,” the Wampanoag beside Massasoit Ousamequin said. “Yes.”
“Is he important?”
“His wife is the president of their state. She is from our time. Massasoit Ousamequin, this president is roughly as powerful as you or Canonicus or Tatobem.”
One of the other seated Wampanoags surged to his feet. “Massasoit Ousamequin is the greatest of all the—!”
Massasoit Ousamequin stopped him with a raised hand. “That is good of you to say. But Tatobem is dead, killed by the Dutch. Sassacus is great sachem of the Pequot now.” Sakaweston inclined his head. “I have been away many years.”
Epenow laughed. Then so did the Wampanoag to Massasoit Ousamequin’s right. Sakaweston noted that he had not risen to his feet. But now when he was done laughing, he stood.
“The Patuxet are no more. Disease came to their villages. The last was Tisquantum.” He paused, evidently waiting to see if Sakaweston recognized the name.
“I knew Tisquantum in England,” Sakaweston stated. He looked around. “Is he well?”
“He died two or three years after the white men called Pilgrims came,” Massasoit Ousamequin answered. “I sent him and Hobbamock here”—he indicated the man to his right—“to Plymouth town. I came to mistrust Tisquantum. Maybe I was right to do so. Maybe I was wrong.”
The great sachem stared intently at Sakaweston. “What do the People from the Sky say about us?”
“Their children know that you, Tisquantum, and a man named Samoset helped the Pilgrims. They say Massasoit wrongly and do not realize it is not your name. Tisquantum they call Squanto.” He turned to Hobbamock. “I did not hear your name. But understand that while Grantville is now a center of white man’s learning, it was not so in their own time. You will hear tomorrow that they sent information that they acknowledge is incomplete.”
“Can we trust them?” Massasoit Ousamequin’s words were urgent.
Sakaweston knew this question was coming. “Yes. They admitted they mistreated our people and wish to do better.”
“That is easy to say.”
“I am told two of them came here last year and said the same thing.”
“We have heard. A few Wampanoags were there. It was mostly Pequots, Mohegan, Narragansetts, and Niantics they spoke to.”
“They say all the Algonquian peoples should work together.”
“Now that is interesting,” Hobbamock said. “That is the same thing that Fast as Lightning says.”
“You must find out tomorrow why he does not like you,” Massasoit Ousamequin commanded. “I already speak with Winslow about how we must ally against the French.”
Friday, August 21, 1637
Hobbamock was awake before dawn. He prepared himself and then strode to the Narragansett camp.
Two warriors met him. They, along with three more he saw but chose not to acknowledge, were on watch.
“I would speak to Fast as Lightning.”
“Why?”
“That is between him and me.”
“You are armed.” The Narragansett held out his hand.
Hobbamock rolled his eyes and handed the man his knife. “If I need one, I will take it from someone.”
One of the Narragansetts left to find Fast as Lightning. He returned in a few minutes, with another Narragansett beside him. This man’s chest was painted red with a yellow bolt of lightning.
“Fast as Lightning, I am Hobbamock, pniese of the Wampanoag. Let us speak together.”
Fast as Lightning’s expression did not change. A mixture of curiosity and challenge, Hobbamock thought. The younger man waved the other Narragansetts off.
“You have said that all our people must stand together when the People from the Sky come.”
“Yes, I have,” Fast as Lightning acknowledged.
“You have half persuaded Canonicus and Awashaw.”
“It may be.”
“What have I done to you?” Hobbamock held up a hand. “Yes, I raided the Narragansett as they raided us Wampanoag. But I have no interest in war between us.”
Fast as Lightning appeared to study him carefully. “It is your name,” he finally said. “Not that word you go to war often causes warriors to settle their differences before you arrive. That is well known.” He hesitated. “Last spring, before the People from the Sky came, I fought the Mohegan Black Tooth. He was said to be possessed by Hobomok.”
“And you ask if I am possessed by the same spirit?” Hobbamock paused to order his thoughts. “Years ago, I would have taken offense. Now . . . Much has changed.” He pointed. “You follow the Red God but warn us of the up-timers.”
“Yes.”
“A Wampanoag has returned from their land. He will speak today. Hear him.”
“I will. I have heard that you fought beside the Pilgrims in Plymouth town.”
“I did.”
“That you called on their God, Keihtánit’s Son, for protection.”
“It was a time for flight, and they would have prayed all day if I let them. I told them what I told Standish. ‘Keihtánit, the Son, and the Holy Manitou protect.’”
“Thank you . . . Hobbamock.” Fast as Lightning still looked grave, but relieved. “I do not think the actual Hobomok would call on Keihtánit.”
“It seems unlikely,” Hobbamock agreed. “When does this warrior speak?”
* * *
Today it was the Nipmucks’ turn to build and maintain the fire. Who and how many they chose for that duty was up to them. Since they were a collection of scattered bands, one man from each band was chosen. The fire was purely ceremonial; the August day was warm, and only the first circle of sachems could feel its heat anyway.
Massasoit Ousamequin rose. “I ask we all hear a Wampanoag tell us about the People from the Sky.”
“It should be a Pequot,” Sassacus objected.
Sakaweston stood. “Great Sachem, no Pequots were among those taken to England so there are none who can tell this story. Count yourselves fortunate that none of you were captured.”
Sassacus shook his head slowly. “Fair,” he acknowledged. “Speak.”
“Twenty-nine of us were captured and taken to England.” Sakaweston reeled off the names he remembered. “Epenow tricked the English into bringing him back and escaped. I stayed in England many years. I saw no chance of return and had no way to be a warrior. But the English were sending soldiers to a war in a far-off place called Bohemia. Great armies fought in the open, not as we do here. The fighting moved to the Germanies, and then the People from the Sky came. Five years ago, an army went to war with almost one hundred thousand men.” Sakaweston paused and turned in place, looking at all the men gathered around. “The People from the Sky think that there may be eighty thousand if all our peoples south of the Huron and east of the Mohawk are added together. This army was more, and it was all in one place. Its enemy was much smaller, but included the People from the Sky and their weapons. They destroyed the larger army.
“Many others have joined the People from the Sky. Three years ago, the names we hear from white men—England, France, and Spain—were all against them. The People from the Sky and their allies were victorious. They still face many enemies, and they are not coming here in strength. But many others use their tools.
“They are from the future. They look back and say they did not treat us fairly. They have chosen not to build their own colonies here, but they will not necessarily stop others from doing so. They offer friendship and tools. But they want something, too.”
“Of course. Everyone wants something.” That was Uncas, sachem of the Mohegan. “Freedom. An end to slavery. Many kinds. Serfdom is what it is called in parts of Europe.”
“Surely they do not mean we must give up our captives.”
Hobbamock, seated nearby, murmured a name to Sakaweston.
“No, Wequash Cook, they do not.” Sakaweston smiled. “They would prefer we did, but they acknowledge that we often return captives after a time or adopt them into the tribe.” He sketched out what the People from the Sky did not want.
“They urge us to work together. One of the People from the Sky returned with me. I ask you to hear him this afternoon. He is an up-timer, but one of us. Not from here but from far away. He will tell you what happened to us between now and when the People from the Sky came.” Sakaweston paused. “That future will not happen. I do not understand. I do not think they understand. But in their past, there was a great war here”—he swept a hand around him—“last year and this year. But it has not happened. I am told there were two People from the Sky here last year, and they stopped the attack on the Englishman Oldham. You heard their words, and you stopped the war. They believe we can do this again.”
Sakaweston saw satisfaction on many faces and felt some of his own. Others looked skeptical, and that was only natural.
“They saw our best hope is to work together, so that when English or French or Spanish come, they must deal with all of us.” He bent and picked up thick packets at his feet. “They sent these. Sassacus, Massasoit Ousamequin, Uncas, Samoset. They know only a few of us.”
Sassacus accepted the packet, carefully opened it, and pulled out a thick stack of paper. He looked at Sakaweston in bewilderment. “What is this?”
“Information.”
“I speak English,” the Abenaki sagamore Samoset said. “I do not read.”
“We could ask some of the English boys to read them for us,” Sakaweston said. “I can read a little. Not this much.”
Uncas looked up from the papers in his hands. “How do we know they will speak truly?”
“You have four packets,” Sakaweston said. “Right now, Walter Goodluck is giving the English four packets. He and I did not read them, but we probably know much of what they say. Let English lads from different colonies read them aloud. The story will be as strange to them as it is to us. There will not be time to make a lie. Why not hear the words of the People from the Sky? Make sure what I tell you matches.”
After a few minutes of discussion, messengers were sent. An hour later, several English boys had established that each packet held the same ten booklets and a personal letter.
Sassacus guffawed when the letter to Uncas was read. “Last of the Mohicans? Ha! Say rather, would-be first of the Mohegans.”
Uncas started to take offense, then saw the humor in it. “At least they know they are wrong. But chasing after a white girl? If I meet this man James Fenimore Cooper, I shall surely challenge him.”
* * *
That afternoon, Sakaweston and Walter Goodluck switched places. “We do not know the Diné,” Uncas said. It wasn’t quite a challenge.
“You know the Iroquois, the Five Nations,” Goodluck began. “Beyond them are the Great Lakes. Past the farthest are the Sioux.” He paused as Hobbamock translated, then waited some more as the words were clarified in various Algonquian dialects. “In this time, I think they live at the edge of what people in my past called the Great American Desert. The Great Plains. But it is not really a desert. In my time, much of it was very productive farmland. Beyond the plains is the true desert. That is where the Pueblo, Hopi, Zuni, Apache, and Diné live.”
One of the oldest medicine men present spoke up. “I have heard stories.”
“The desert is hot and dry and few plants grow there. We live differently than you do. On the reservation—”
Goodluck was interrupted by hisses. He smiled. That had taken not more than a few hours. Good. For the rest of the day, he told them of the Indian Wars. The Battle of the Greasy Grass. The reservations. The Mohawk steel walkers. His own tribe’s code talkers. Joe Medicine Crow, the last of the Plains tribes’ war chiefs, who met the four requirements in Germany during World War II.
“Well told,” the Narragansett diplomat Awashaw said when Goodluck was finished. “In your world, we lost.”
“Yes.”
“Do you really believe we can win in our world?” Awashaw stared him down.
Walter Goodluck realized others were awaiting his answer. Massasoit Ousamequin. Sassacus. Canonicus.
“I hope so.” Goodluck turned slowly in place, looking at each man. “Up-time we were outnumbered.” He waved a hand toward Dorchester. “Dorchester and Boston and Plymouth town are not much now. In my time, more people lived in Boston than live in London now. New Amsterdam filled Manhattan Island and spread onto other islands and the mainland. Ten million people or so. In this time, the English are not coming in big numbers. That is important. No one power will control all of North America.
“But that is France’s plan. That is why France bought the colonies from England.”
“The French oppose the Iroquois,” Sassacus pointed out. “So they have been closer to a friend than an enemy. All say the great captain Champlain is a man of honor.”
“I believe the same about Champlain,” Goodluck agreed. “The French who came to Plymouth town and Boston are not the same. They serve a different king. But what we must do—what you must do, because it does not matter if I do it—is unite. If the French—or the English or the Spanish or the Danes—set Wampanoag against Narragansett, Pequot against Mohegan, Nipmuck against Mohican, they will conquer. That is what England has done in Scotland and Ireland. That is what happened uptime.”
“So you say we must combine. Stop being Pequot and Nipmuck and Massachusett,” Sassacus said. “Who won up-time?” Goodluck asked. When no one answered, he said, “The English. But they did not stay English. Massachusetts and Connecticut and New Amsterdam after the English conquered it and Virginia worked together while remaining themselves.”
“You mean a federation.” Samoset’s voice was flat. “Like the Iroquois. I have listened to the English boys reading. Such a complicated government!”
“You do not have to copy the whole thing,” Goodluck replied. “Follow the principles. Adapt the forms.”
That took longer than usual to translate.
Canonicus spoke for the first time. “A great council. But . . . ”
“Who would be the great sachem?” Awashaw asked the question for him.
Men called out names. But Goodluck noticed that they all came from the back rows. The sachems and medicine men were silent.
Saturday, August 22, 1637
After the Montaukett lit the fire, Massasoit Ousamequin began the proceedings. “You forgot something, Person of the Sky.”
Walter Goodluck kept a straight face. He’d heard rumors. “What have I forgotten, Great Sachem?”
“The women’s council. Do not the Women of the Sky have a say?”
Goodluck grinned. “Oh, yes. They most certainly do. They vote in the same elections that we men vote in.”
“How much influence do they have? Do any serve in this Parliament?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Amalie of Hesse-Kassel is regent of Hesse-Kassel for her young son. She is Hesse-Kassel’s acting senator. Charlotte rules Jülich-Berg. Charlotte Kienitz represents a district in Mecklenburg and is far more influential than that suggests. Rebecca Abrabanel resigned as a delegate to serve as secretary of state. That is similar to what Awashaw does for Canonicus.”
“And in your . . . state?” Massasoit Ousamequin pressed.
“My wife Helene Gundelfinger is the President of the State of Thuringia-Franconia. That is . . . There are differences, you understand? But president is like great sachem.”
Sunday, August 23, 1637
Neither the Pilgrims nor the Puritans nor even the Anglicans would hold a political council on Sunday, so both Goodluck and Sakaweston joined the tribes’ council. They listened as the Algonquians discussed whether they wanted great councils.
Monday, August 24, 1637
On the following day, boats carrying food from the Griffin began arriving at Dorchester, Newtowne, Watertowne, and Fort Hope. The refugees from Plymouth and Massachusetts Bay would not starve. But even the food that would help them through the coming winter was second to the other cargo: fifty shotguns, the new Evans Slamfires out of Nuremberg.
The guns were tangible proof that they had to cooperate. If they went their separate ways, two or three or four guns would make almost no difference.
But together . . .
For the first time, Sassacus, Canonicus, and Massasoit Ousamequin gathered off to one side. After a few minutes, they called for Sakaweston and Goodluck.
“We are rivals,” Sassacus stated. “But we must fight together against the French. Perhaps against others. We cannot have one great sachem.”
“Nor can we have one from every tribe and band,” Canonicus said.
“I am content to hear the great council on most matters,” Ousamequin told them. “But sometimes we must act swiftly and will not be able to remain in council lest our enemies overrun us.”
“You have both used weapons like this,” Sassacus said to Sakaweston and Goodluck. “How would you use them? Not how do you fire one—I watched you earlier. I believe I could fire one myself. But when I send warriors to battle, they do not fight each alone.”
“The Algonquian tribes need an army.” Walter Goodluck’s words were blunt. “Not a large one, because a standing army causes its own problems. But you need warriors who can use these weapons when you need them. Not two here and three there, all trying to find each other. Not all fifty stored in one location with everyone hurrying toward it.”
“Goodluck,” Canonicus spoke. “I have had battles with less than thirty men. Thirty men with these weapons would be a tribe of their own.”
“We discussed this as we sailed,” Walter Goodluck stated. “Sakaweston and I. We did not tell the Puritans.”
“We know. We saw their faces when they learned the boxes held guns.”
Sakaweston spoke. “Give them a name. Set them apart from the tribes. Let them serve for a time, and then others take their turn. But while they carry a shotgun, they serve the Algonquian as a whole, not their own tribe.”
“You have heard the letter to Priscilla Alden,” Goodluck reminded them. “Not even Sakaweston and I knew about the letters.”
“Those are truly written by English girls?” Massasoit Ousamequin asked. “American, but yes.”
“These . . . teams?” The great sachem shook his head. “Those with green hats? Begin with one. If it is successful, add more.”
Sassacus gave a single, sharp nod. “One warrior from each tribe. They must practice but use as little ammunition as possible.”
“But not us,” Canonicus warned. “We must find a way for the tribes to work together.” He spread his hands. “There have always been raids. But these new weapons should not be used against other tribes. Perhaps against the Iroquois. But these men who are set apart, they must not be part of any raids.”
“This is wisdom,” Massasoit Ousamequin stated. Sassacus simply nodded again.
Walter remembered the information the girls had added to the packet addressed to Priscilla Alden. “I cannot give you the esprit de corps . . . the morale and the purpose that they had up-time. They must work together and become your elite warriors. I do not think telling them they are eleven Bravos and Charlies and Deltas would mean anything.”
Sakaweston laughed and then translated for the others.
“Your letters and numbers will mean nothing to us,” Massasoit Ousamequin agreed. “But we saw the pictures . . . .”
Goodluck nodded. He wasn’t sure if Grantville still had working photocopiers, but if so, the girls hadn’t had access to one. They’d drawn uniforms and unit badges and colored them with crayons.
“The coat of arms that is red, white, black, and yellow. That is all people. That is what you People from the Sky seek.”
Walter Goodluck shook his head. “I do not think that was the intention.”
Massasoit Ousamequin smiled. “But it fits. Three? . . . Four years ago, some of my warriors encountered a blackamoor in the forest for the first time.”
Sassacus took over. “The railroad in your history was a way for blackamoors to escape. It is what the Mohican Machk and the Puritan Robert Lockwood are already doing. It is what Massasoit Ousamequin led warriors to do, to rescue Winslow and his people from Plymouth town.”
Canonicus nodded in agreement. “That is what the warriors with the shotguns will do. Be the railroad for all the people of the shield.”
“You did say that your up-time leaders seek to end slavery and serfdom,” Ousamequin stated. “Massasoit Sassacus and Massasoit Canonicus speak well.”
Walter realized the sachems had just recognized each other’s authority.
“Make the team,” Canonicus said. “Walter Goodluck of the Diné and the Thuringians, we need more ammunition. I remember other things we need. Blacksmiths. Doctors. Teachers. The white men need food.”
Sakaweston translated.
“The up-time girls are correct,” Canonicus continued. “They offer to share their God but let us remain Algonquian rather than becoming white men. It must be this way with the rest.”
“Yes. We will have a women’s great council instead of your representatives,” Massasoit Ousamequin said. “It cannot be otherwise.”
Walter simply nodded.
Sassacus sighed. “The forests shall stand. But for some of what Canonicus asks for, there must be buildings. Can you build them?”
Walter blinked in surprise. “That is what I do. I work for a company that builds. But it should not be just my company. I am not here for that.”
“That is why we trust you,” Massasoit Ousamequin told him. “You are up-timer and”—he undeniably smirked—“Indian. You make no secret you are caught between.”
Walter sighed. “All my life.”
“We have not spoken of it, but you will return to Europe.”
“Yes.”
“Massasoit Sassacus, Massasoit Canonicus, Goodluck should be our ambassador to the United States of Europe.”
“I build things.” Walter Goodluck spoke firmly. “Yes. Yes, you do,” Sassacus agreed.
Tuesday, August 25, 1637
Walter Goodluck went back to the colonists on Tuesday. The tribes needed to pick their men and agree how their team would work. Then he and Sakaweston could train them.
“The Indians are allying against us!” John Endecott was speaking before he was even completely on his feet.
“They are allying against any power that seeks to do what was done up-time,” Walter corrected. “It does not have to be against you. In fact, you should ally with them. Some of you already have agreements with individual tribes.”
“Absolutely not!”
Debate raged most of the morning. Walter passed through annoyance, anger, and boredom. Judging from how the sun had stopped coming directly through the windows, it must have been approaching noon when the door flew open. A Puritan woman entered Council Hall.
“If it please the assembly, when will we establish our women’s council?”
Thomas Hooker shot to his feet. “Anne Hutchinson! Leave this assembly at once!”
Walter Goodluck spoke over other voices raised in agreement. “My wife would agree that women ought to be represented. How you do that . . . ”
Endecott whirled on Goodluck. “How can you say that?”
Walter shrugged. “My wife is the President of the State of Thuringia-Franconia.”
He waited for the hubbub to die down. “Look, you have to organize your own society. But you might want to remember that the Algonquians are going to have a men’s council and a women’s council. Whatever leaders you choose are going to have to work with whatever leaders they choose. You’re going to talk to each other. If the Algonquian women are represented and the English women aren’t, you might have problems.”
“English law—!”
“Charles sold you out.” Goodluck glared at the speaker. “I am so sick of hearing about English common law and Charlemagne’s law and Justinian’s code. Stop treating them like Scripture. Are you Pilgrims and Puritans or not?”
* * *
Walter Goodluck was not invited to the assembly’s afternoon session. So he checked with Sakaweston.
“It is just as well,” Sakaweston said. “The tribes are choosing. You can begin training us.”
“Me?”
“You have fired modern weapons much more than I have.”
Goodluck’s mouth quirked. He wasn’t sure if it was at the seventeenth-century Wampanoag’s quick adoption of the term “modern weapons” or that someone would consider the slamfire shotguns state-of-the-art weapons.
“I’ve never been in the army, Sakaweston. Not even right after the Ring of Fire. They wanted anyone who could build doing that. I can’t teach anyone how to fight.”
“They do not need to learn that, Walter.” Sakaweston’s grin was feral. “Hobbamock and Samoset laughed because we already know your Rangers’ orders. Just teach us the weapons.”
“I can do that. I thought to join the team myself.”
“No.” Sakaweston held up both hands. “You must speak for us in Europe.”
“But . . . ”
“Teach your son the ways of the Diné. One day, one of you will reach them.” Walter swallowed. “I’d like that.”
“We will fight beside the Diné anytime,” Sakaweston continued. “But we must fight together without up-timers.”
Walter laughed.
“You are not offended?”
“No, not at all. They have the same debate in Europe, with a newspaper on either side.”
“Speak for us, Walter. You have Canonicus’ list. More shotgun shells. Then come back and build the shops.”
“We need to talk about having goods to sell to Europe,” Walter reminded him. “Not just beaver pelts.”
“Most of what we have thought of so far is plants. We need more.”
Walter shook his head. “I don’t have all the answers, Sakaweston. I just know we—you—can’t remain hunter-gatherers indefinitely. But I will not force you to my vision of what should be. It has to be your vision.”
Sakaweston nodded, a very serious expression on his face. Then he clapped Walter on the shoulder. “We cannot fix everything this afternoon. Let us find the men the tribes have selected.”
Walter laughed. “What?”
“You say ‘men,’ but I see a woman of the tribes approaching us.”
Sakaweston turned in place. He saw a man and a woman. “Niantic. Married,” he whispered to Goodluck. But he had no chance to explain how he’d observed that.
“I am Quaiapen, daughter of Saccious, sachem of the Niantic. This is my husband Mexanno.” Sakaweston translated that for Goodluck. Immediately after they had exchanged greetings, Quaiapen spoke. “Walter Goodluck of the Diné, I understand your wife is a powerful sachem across the sea.”
“It is not quite the same thing, but the essence of what you say is true.”
“We hear the People from the Sky sent the story of their past to a few of us. We hear those were the only names they knew. But the story was sent to some of the English, too, and one of them is a woman.”
When Sakaweston finished translating, Goodluck said, “Yes, that is so.”
“We also hear the English woman Anne Hutchinson demanded a women’s council.”
“She requested that women be represented in the assembly . . . council . . . however they decide to organize it. The Europeans think differently than we do, and it would not occur to them to have a separate women’s council.”
“But she was not the woman who received the story.”
“No, that is Priscilla Alden.”
“I have met the wife of Hobbamock. She speaks well of Priscilla Alden. May I meet her?”
Wednesday, August 26, 1637
“Are there so many of you that you need a bicameral legislature?” Walter Goodluck asked the colonists. “No. A bicameral legislature is a compromise. In the up-time United States of America, between the large states who wanted representation by population and the small states who wanted equal representation by state. In the down-time United States of Europe, for similar reasons.
“If you must guarantee Puritan representation and Pilgrim representation and Anglican representation—and Dutch representation—then go ahead. You would do better not to have a religious test for office, even if you reserve seats for each group.”
Thomas Hooker surged to his feet. “The Halfway Covenant was—will be—a travesty! God brought us here to establish a new order—”
“A shining city on a hill,” Goodluck interrupted. “We know Governor Winthrop’s phrase. It was famous in my time, and it is a worthy goal, to be that city. I thought about it, talked with Sakaweston about it, on the voyage from Europe. There were those who criticized it because people did not always live up to it. That is foolish. We are agreed that mankind is fallen. It is not surprising that people don’t live up to it. It is better to encourage each other to strive to live up to it.”
Edward Winslow stood. “If I may, Friend Goodluck, you are about to exhort us to be that city for everyone, to include women and Indians and Moors. To cut a straight path through the woods that you wandered around in up-time.”
Goodluck smiled. “You know me well, Friend Winslow.”
“The Indians are already creating a league—”
John Endecott was on his feet. “If all the tribes ally together, we cannot stand against them! We must choose carefully . . . ”
“Divide and conquer.” Goodluck’s words were flat. “Sakaweston and I already told the tribes about that. Look, you have to stand together to survive against the French. You have to have peace with the Algonquian tribes to do that.”
“They cannot be trusted!”
The door burst open. Sakaweston entered, his face painted in quadrants: black, red, white, and yellow.
“The French have landed again in Sovereignty. Yesterday. Colonel Fenwick’s work crews evacuated the area without loss. They stayed nearby long enough to see the French burn what was salvaged for rebuilding. Then they rowed all night to get here.”
“The Griffin?” Walter Goodluck asked quickly.
“Sighted the French before Sovereignty did. She fired a gun to call her boats back and ran for New Amsterdam. One of the French ships went after her but the Sovereignty men say the French will not catch her. Not with Richard More aboard as her pilot.”
“We need to stop them below Watertowne.” Captain John Endecott’s words were firm. “He’s right,” Captain John Mason declared. “We have to protect the three towns.”
“Algonquian warriors will set out at noon. As many as we have canoes for. The rest will stay here to protect the camps and the river towns.” Sakaweston paused. “We need twelve on the team. We have ten.”
A burly Dorchester man stood. “Is this the team with the shotguns?”
“Aye.”
“Count me in. If I am to build more, I would see how they fare in battle.” John Alden stood. “What other colonists do you have?”
“Robert of the Puritans,” Sakaweston answered.
“Someone from the Old Colony should go.” Alden started for the door.
Sakaweston held up a hand and addressed the assembly. “They need three of your shotguns.”
“I’m coming, too,” Walter Goodluck declared.
Sakaweston frowned. But all he said was, “We welcome the Diné.”
Algonquian encampment outside Dorchester
A few minutes later, fourteen men gathered near the Algonquian encampments. Sakaweston pointed at a straw man on a post. The rags were barely holding the straw in.
“Those were our targets yesterday. The children put one back together as best they could.
“The Evans shotgun is a very simple weapon.” He pointed at the one John Alden held. It had a barrel, a stock, and no trigger. The barrel had a long leather sleeve several inches wide partway down its length. One end of a leather thong was woven into the sleeve, and the other end tied around the small of the stock.
“Left hand on the leather strap around the barrel. Now, pull.” Alden did so, and the barrel slid clear of the weapon.
“The shell goes here. Then you slam the barrel into the shell, and it fires. So you have to aim and then hold it steady while you slam the barrel. This is not a precision weapon like the SRG rifles that Walter and I carry. This a weapon for fighting an enemy that fights in formation or bunches up. It would be less effective against our warriors.”
“Convenient,” one of the warriors stated. “A manitou is looking out for us.”
“Sachem Kuchamakin of the Massachusetts.” Sakaweston identified the speaker when he translated the remark to English.
“Or Keihtánit. Or the white man’s God,” said another.
“Wequash Cook of the Western Niantic,” Sakaweston added in English.
“Or Hobomok. Or the Red God,” Samoset added. “This team has as many religions as the white men!” He translated it to English himself.
All the Algonquians laughed uproariously. Pomeroy scowled, while Lockwood and Alden exchanged glances.
“And you, Walter Goodluck?”
Walter smiled. “Seventh-Day Adventist. A Christian denomination that started up-time.”
“Why that one?” Samoset asked. “Why not Puritan or Pilgrim or Anglican?”
“Adventist missionaries came to the reservation.”
Sakaweston held out three shotgun shells. They had metal bases and heavy paper walls.
All three of them missed their first shots. Pomeroy sprayed straw from one side of the target with his second. Lockwood and Alden aimed too high.
“This is not like a musket,” Sakaweston told them. “You keep a loaded musket pointed up in the air, yes?”
“Aye.”
“Not a slamfire. Once you place the shell, you mean to shoot. Keep it straight and level after that.” Pomeroy’s third shot blew through the center of the target. Lockwood took off its “head.” Then Alden stepped up and actually shot low, hitting about where the upper legs would be. “Good,” Hobbamock said. “Now we are twelve.”
He pointed to each man in turn. “Sachems Kuchamakin of the Massachusett and Wequash Cook of the Niantic command. Samoset and I can speak to all. Fast as Lightning of the Narragansett and Machk of the Mohican are our best scouts. Sawseunck of the Quinnipiac knows something of healing. Kiswas of the Pequot, Wawequa of the Mohegan, and Robert Lockwood of the Puritans know all the factions. Eltweed Pomeroy of the river towns is a blacksmith, and John Alden of the Puritans is a cooper.”
Kuchamakin spoke. Hobbamock translated. “We go ahead of the rest in canoes. But not fast. Let the French come. They will have farther to flee.”
Quinnehtukqut (the Connecticut River,
near up-time Middletown and Portland)
At dusk, Wequash Cook and Kuchamakin directed the men to shore. John Alden was only too happy to comply. They’d paddled down the Connecticut River all day and were nearly to the big bend. In the stern, Hobbamock showed no sign of fatigue.
They had no more than posted a watch and pulled the canoes out of the water when voices called out.
Sawseunck called back to them.
Two men appeared from the woods. Their relief at seeing the team was obvious. Hobbamock kept up a running translation for Alden, Lockwood, and Pomeroy.
“The French are in boats. Twelve of them. They landed from four ships in two trips.” Hobbamock interjected something in Wampanoag. “At Plymouth town they used eight boats to land fifty men at a time. Say one hundred twenty here. Two trips could be two hundred forty, with half of them still at Sovereignty.”
“I heard tell the French had ten ships at Boston,” Robert Lockwood put in. “About five hundred soldiers total seems about right. Two hundred here. A hundred in Plymouth or dead there. Two hundred between Boston, Salem, and the smaller villages.”
The two messengers gave additional information. Samoset summarized for the English-speakers. “The French surprised the Wangunk village Cockaponet. The French have taken prisoners—guides to help them and hostages to keep the rest of the Wangunk from attacking them. These scouts were sent to the great council in Dorchester to seek aid from Wawaloam. She is the sister of the sachem and married to Canonicus’ nephew.”
Wequash Cook spoke. Hobbamock translated. “If we defeat this force, the French will be hardpressed to make raids. But it must be done in such a way that the boats do not reach Cockaponet before we do. Coming by boat is a much better plan than earlier in the summer when they walked along the river and gave us time to confront them.”
“Get behind them,” Kuchamakin suggested.
“There is an island a short distance ahead,” Kiswas said.
“Mattabesset.” One of the Wangunk scouts supplied the name, pronouncing it as though it ended with a K. “Sowheage and his people have already fled into the woods.”
Kuchamakin and Wequash Cook held a quick discussion.
“Kiswas, Wawequa, can you guide us to Mattabesset?” Kuchamakin asked. “Yes.”
“We will go now and try to find Sowheage,” Kuchamakin said. He shot Walter Goodluck a sly look. “This is what the green hats from your time would do, yes? Join us with the indigenous forces?”
The Massachusett sachem had slaughtered the pronunciation, but Goodluck grinned back. Samoset stumbled through the word, too. “Indigenous. That means us ‘Indians,’ yes?”
“I don’t think it’s from the same word.” Goodluck’s words were cautious. “I would have to look it up in a book.”
“Heh. For now, that is what we will do,” Kuchamakin said. “But we must row hard before it is full dark to make sure we arrive at Mattabesset before the French.”
Mattabesset (up-time Middletown, Connecticut)
Kiswas waved the seven canoes ashore as the sky darkened. They dragged the canoes into the forest and set off to approach Mattabesset from the inland side.
The Pequot Kiswas was in the lead, with Wawequa of the Mohegan, Sawseunck of the Quinnipiac, and Wequash Cook of the Niantic close behind. Samoset followed them, relaying important observations to Kuchamakin. Hobbamock had Pomeroy, Lockwood, and Alden together, simply because it was easier to translate for all of them at once.
Machk and Fast as Lightning returned from opposite directions.
“The French boats are on the shore with only a few guards,” the Mohican reported. “They have patrols, but they are lazy and not watching inland.”
“The Wangunk hostages are in the middle of the village,” Fast as Lightning added. “I believe that
wetu must be Sowheage’s. Some of the French are stealing, but most are cooking food.”
Walter Goodluck moved up from the back of the column. “Tomorrow, if our armies face each other, will the French threaten to kill the hostages if we do not back down?”
Hobbamock spat. “Not if they have honor. We have heard stories of the great captain Champlain.
He would not. But you say these French serve a foolish king.”
That seemed an accurate and concise description of Gaston. “Yes.”
“They might.”
“We cannot back down,” Wequash Cook said after Hobbamock translated the conversation. “What if we rescued the hostages tonight?” Goodluck asked.
“The French outnumber us badly,” Kuchamakin hissed. “Ten to one, or close enough. It is clear they do not expect an attack. But someone must say it. If we all die tonight, our peoples and the English may not form another team.”
“It is even more important that Sakaweston and Walter Goodluck survive,” Hobbamock pointed out.
“Is the French sachem with the hostages?” Wequash Cook asked. “If these weapons are as powerful as we think, our attack may break their spirit. If their sachem is killed . . . ”
“ . . . our united tribes and colonies will find it easier to prevail tomorrow,” Kuchamakin finished. “I agree, but Goodluck and Sakaweston must stay here.”
“We have rifles,” Goodluck agreed. “We will be long-range cover.”
Sakaweston settled in behind a tree. Goodluck chose another some fifteen yards away. He brushed away sticks and leaves and settled to the ground.
Fast as Lightning and Machk set off in separate directions. The rest of the team divided evenly behind them. Goodluck tracked Fast as Lightning, watching the shadows ahead and to either side. The Narragansett was fast and silent. So were the five men behind him. Within a couple minutes, they were nearby out of sight.
Then Goodluck heard voices. He turned his head to the right and saw a French patrol was finally sweeping along the inland edge of Mattabesset. No, “patrol” was too formal for what this was: four soldiers tromping along the tree line.
The four of them stopped. Goodluck did not understand French, but the body language was clear. One of them, probably a sergeant or corporal, was posting a sentry. That man stayed while the other three continued on.
They walked right past the tree Sakaweston was behind. Goodluck had long since frozen in place behind his tree. The three passed by without even a glance and continued off to the north.
Once Goodluck dared risk turning his head, he saw that the sentry had begun pacing. He stopped short of Sakaweston’s tree and then turned back. Goodluck peered into the village and saw nothing. He looked back to his right, and the French sentry was coming their way again.
This time he did not stop. He passed Sakaweston’s tree. Now he was ten yards away. Five. Two. The man stopped directly in Walter Goodluck’s line of fire, to all appearances unaware that a rifleman was on the other side of the tree.
Goodluck ever so slowly turned his head. Sakaweston was perfectly still, focused on his sights. That made up Goodluck’s mind. If Sakaweston had a possible shot, he’d be needed, too. The sentry had to go.
Goodluck left his rifle on the ground as he rose. No branch or leaf betrayed his presence. His right hand went to his hip, and he drew the nine-millimeter. He eased it up, little by little. It was shoulder high when the sentry finally began to turn.
Goodluck swung overhand, bringing the pistol barrel crashing down on the Frenchman’s neck. The impact seemed deafeningly loud. Goodluck caught the man and dragged him back into the tree line, easing him to the ground a couple trees deep. Walter quickly resumed his position. He noted that Sakaweston was still peering through his sights.
Goodluck could not see anyone in the village. He could hear some of the French, but they seemed to be mostly inside the dwellings.
Then he heard something else. A scraping or scuffling. It was followed by a distinct thump.
Seconds later, a shotgun blast thundered in the center of the village. Sakaweston’s SRG cracked before the echoes died away.
A figure entered his vision, running left to right. Goodluck identified him as a French soldier, led slightly, and pulled the trigger. The bullet knocked the man off his feet. Goodluck was up now, reloading the rifle.
Figures emerged from a wetu, distinct against the birchbark house even in the dark. Sakaweston took several steps in Goodluck’s direction. Goodluck saw a glint of light from a blade. Somehow Sakaweston had already fixed his bayonet.
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
“Take the one on the left. Fire.”
The two riflemen fired, and both dropped their targets. Immediately they heard an owl call.
“That is the team! Let’s go!” Sakaweston directed.
Goodluck took off after the Wampanoag. Three men were still bunched up in front of the door of the wetu. Shotgun blasts sounded, and they all went down. More shotguns roared, somewhere on the other side of the central wetu they thought was Sowheage’s.
A figure appeared from between two wetus. Sakaweston smoothly bayoneted him. Goodluck skirted around them and smashed into someone. He staggered, regained his footing, and swung hard with a clubbed rifle. The butt of the weapon caught the other man in the ribs.
Another! His rifle was tangled up. Goodluck grabbed the sword out of the falling Frenchman’s hand and drove it at the newcomer. The man twisted out of the way. Off-balance, he couldn’t immediately aim a blow at Goodluck.
Walter dropped the unfamiliar sword and drew the pistol he knew and practiced with. Two shots, both center of mass.
He saw Sakaweston had bayoneted another Frenchman. There were two more. Goodluck shot them both with the nine-millimeter, then snatched up his rifle with his other hand. He and Sakaweston ran.
The shotgun fire was now a continuous thunder. “Goodluck! Sakaweston!” That was Hobbamock’s voice. “Here!”
“Good. We have to leave now!”
Goodluck slowed. He saw that most of the team was firing the Evans shotguns as fast as they could load, and many Frenchmen were down. The Quinnipiac and Mohegan members of the team had gathered the hostages. Sawseunck shouted something to Wequash Cook.
Wequash Cook shouted something back as he put another shotgun shell in place. Samoset translated. “Upstream! There are too many!”
A couple booms rolled through the village. Goodluck recognized them as musket shots, but he did not see anyone get hit.
But Wequash Cook was right. There were too many French soldiers. If they fell back to the canoes, it would be a running battle. The hostages would slow them. The French would rush them as they pushed off. Then follow . . .
“Boats!” Goodluck shouted. “Take the French boats!”
He ran toward the boats and heard a couple others behind him. He saw men silhouetted against the boats, about a squad or so. One began to level a musket.
Goodluck fired two shots. The man fell to the ground. He saw the next closest man, on the other side of the same boat. He was reloading. Goodluck fired and missed. The man hit the ground. Goodluck jumped into the ship’s boat. It rocked a bit as he crossed its width in two quick strides. Goodluck held the pistol out over the side and fired twice more. The man on the ground did not get up.
He turned and saw Hobbamock blast a French soldier to the ground. Another charged him, and the Wampanoag pniese swung the detached shotgun barrel like a club. It struck his sword arm, and the blade fell to the ground. Two more quick blows to the head, and the man was down.
Goodluck checked the other direction. Fast as Lightning eluded one Frenchman and engaged the man behind him. As the first Frenchman whirled around in confusion, Goodluck shot him.
The shotgun blasts were nearer now. Goodluck saw team members approaching, with the hostages running along between them. Goodluck jumped out of the boat. They needed to get it completely into the water.
John Alden arrived first. He immediately put his shoulder against the bow and shoved. Two men, apparently Wangunk hostages, quickly did the same. By the time half a dozen of them were pushing, the bow of the ship’s boat slipped into the water. “On board!”
Alden pulled himself over the side. He dropped into the boat, popped up, and immediately opened fire with his shotgun, firing one round after another off to the left. The Wangunks boarded. As soon as a couple more team members were aboard and firing, Alden ceased fire and found the sweeps.
The Quinnipiac shouted something. Hobbamock shouted something back. Other members of the team raced up: Machk and Lockwood, Samoset, Pomeroy. “On the boat!”
Goodluck left organizing the rowers to Alden. He reloaded the SRG, then inserted a fresh magazine into the nine-millimeter pistol. Kuchamakin, Wequash Cook, and Wawequa came running toward the shore, and someone had rallied a couple dozen French soldiers in pursuit.
Sakaweston fired first, and a figure at the forefront of the French charge went down. Goodluck paused for a moment, waiting for someone to take his place. Someone did. Goodluck shot him.
Kuchamakin stumbled at the water line. He leapt for the boat and missed. He was back to his feet before the splash settled. Others pulled him aboard. Wequash Cook was the last man onto the boat. “Stroke!” Alden called out. He was at the last sweep on the starboard side. It took a minute to get the boat swung around, and the shotgun fire temporarily ceased. At least two musket balls thudded into the hull. The oncoming French charged into the water.
“Fire!” Wequash Cook gave the order, and shotgun blasts shredded the charge. A couple men moved to the stern and continued shooting as the longboat pulled away from Mattabesset.
Sawseunck was soon busy tending wounds. Kuchamakin had taken a sword slash to the leg. It was messy but not deep. Others, including a couple of the hostages, had minor wounds.
“Now what?” Eltweed Pomeroy asked.
“We find the rest of our army.” Goodluck’s answer was automatic. “Our army?” Samoset asked. Then he translated.
Kuchamakin grunted. “We will find out who and how many when we find them.”
The team kept a sharp lookout, both ahead and astern. But there did not seem to be a pursuit.
A couple hours later, Machk sighted boats. A long row of canoes and small boats were lined up on the shore.
As the boat drew closer, Goodluck could see that someone had mounted a heavy guard. A couple dozen men were on guard, and they’d clearly spotted the longboat already.
“One of you, fire a shotgun to port, then reload and fire again.” John Alden’s words were calm and sure. “Firing away from the disengaged side is a sign of surrender. Some of the colonists will know that.”
Samoset did so. A couple hours removed from the battle, the blasts were painfully loud. But no one on shore fired back.
By the time the longboat nosed into the riverbank, dozens of Native Americans and English colonists had gathered around. Within a few minutes, Sassacus, Massasoit Ousamequin, Canonicus, Colonel George Fenwick, Captain John Mason, Lieutenant William Holmes, and Edward Winslow arrived. “The French camp in Mattabesset,” Kuchamakin told them. “We raided them. Rescued the Wangunk they took hostage. Stole a boat.”
“It went well?” Canonicus asked.
“The team works,” Kuchamakin stated. “We saved each other’s lives a number of times.”
“Who struck first?” That came from the gathered warriors.
“Walter Goodluck,” Sakaweston said. “I saw a sentry almost step on him, a couple minutes before the first shot. He hit him with his pistol and dragged him into the woods.”
Many of the warriors looked at Goodluck with newfound respect.
Then Sakaweston laughed. He turned to Goodluck. “You said that the team should rescue the hostages while we provided cover fire with our rifles. And I saw you strike that Frenchman down with the butt of your rifle, then take his sword. You directed us to steal the boat.”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Goodluck frowned. “I dropped the sword and shot the second one with my pistol as soon as I could.”
“And the third one. And the fourth one.”
Kuchamakin’s eyes widened. “You planned the raid, Walter Goodluck. You stole a boat. You touched an enemy in combat without killing him. And you took a weapon from an enemy’s hands.”
Goodluck blinked. “That wasn’t really much of a plan . . . ”
“But it was successful. The hostages are safe. The French commander is dead. I saw Hobbamock kill him.” He smiled. “Do you not hear? The four tests you spoke of, when you told the story of Joe Medicine Crow.”
“What?” Goodluck stared at him. “No. It’s steal a horse.”
When Hobbamock translated, Kuchamakin shrugged. “What good is a horse here? It carries a man in the dry places. Here we use boats. I say you fulfilled the four requirements.” He turned. “How say you, Wequash Cook?”
Wequash Cook nodded gravely. “All four.” He said something else.
“The Algonquian will send a sign with you,” Hobbamock translated. “Someday, when you reach the Diné, they will recognize you are a war chief.”
Quinnehtukqut (the Connecticut River),
east of Willow Island
Thursday, August 27, 1637
Walter Goodluck was bleary-eyed when the Algonquians and the colonists launched their canoes and boats before dawn.
“‘Don’t sleep past dawn. Dawn’s when the French and Indians attack,’” Hobbamock quoted.
Goodluck shook his head. Not only was the older man ridiculously fit, he apparently didn’t need sleep, either. And he could quote Rogers’ Rangers Standing Orders after hearing it . . . well, as much as he and Samoset had been laughing over it, they’d probably told the whole story to their fellow warriors at least a few times. But still—!
* * *
By the time it was truly light, most of the English boats lay between an island covered with willow trees and the eastern riverbank. They were moving very slowly south. The Algonquian canoes were not in sight.
A couple hours later, the French boats came into sight. On board the captured longboat, Colonel George Fenwick gave the order.
“Signal the fleet. Set course upstream.”
Only a handful of the boats had masts. But as scraps of blue cloth were waved from boat to boat, any with sails furled them and used sweeps or even oars to put about.
“That’s blue,” Fenwick muttered to himself. He had only two other orders he could give. Red to attack and drab to land. He glanced at the next boat, a longboat nearly the same size as the captured French one. Half a dozen men were on the sweeps, and a sergeant and eight Dutch soldiers were in the bow. Those were the veterans, the men he was counting on to remain steady . . .
. . . which was a ridiculous thing to be thinking about a battle on the river. Control of New England might hinge on a naval battle this far inland. It was a strange notion, perhaps too strange for Captain John Endecott and his men. Their boats were getting a bit separated. Fenwick nudged the man directing the sweeps and gave a very unnautical order by jerking a thumb to his left. “More that way.”
As the colonists’ boats tightened up on Endecott’s, the French increased their speed. Single sails were raised, and the men at the sweeps redoubled their efforts.
Fenwick wished they’d had enough cloth to add a signal for “go faster.” The French were gaining, the more skillfully crewed boats pulling ahead.
It sucked them north between the island of willows and the eastern bank very nicely.
Quinnehtukqut (the Connecticut River),
west of Willow Island
“Attack!” Sassacus ordered.
The plan had almost worked. The Algonquians were in their canoes between the island of willows and the western bank, waiting for lookouts on the island to signal that the French boats had passed so they could fall on them from behind. The way Willow Island lay in the big bend of the Quinnehtukqut, a stretch of the western channel could not be seen from either upstream or downstream.
But the new French commander was smart. He’d sent one longboat up the western channel.
Dozens of canoes surged forward. Some carried only the two warriors paddling. Others were larger and carried one, two, or even three passengers. The rush looked like chaos—but it was anything but. Groups of canoes stayed together. The team built on the stories sent by the People from the Sky led the way. Other warriors paddled those canoes while those on the team waited with their shotguns. Sassacus’ Pequots were right behind them, with Uncas’ Mohegans beside them. Nipmucks, Wangunks, Niantics, Narragansetts, Wampanoags and others followed.
The French longboat tried to put about. The sail lost what little wind there was. Without sweeps, it would have been in irons. But it got around and started south.
The canoes continued closing in.
In the lead canoe, Wequash Cook shouted his orders. “If it flees, let it go! If it turns upstream around the island, attack!”
The longboat attempted to circle around the southern tip of Willow Island. The turn began smoothly enough. As soon as the longboat broke into the channel east of the island, a number of muskets discharged at once. Only a couple were aimed at the Algonquian canoes. A few of the men in the lead canoes saw a small splash well short of them.
Then the longboat veered to starboard. This was evidently a harder maneuver. The craft came close to shore before steadying out on a course downriver. The Algonquian canoes closed within two hundred yards. The longboat fired an ineffective handful of musket shots. A few canoes started after the longboat, but Uncas recalled them with a sharp order.
The team’s canoes slowed, the fourteen of them forming a staggered line across the eastern channel. As more canoes rounded the tip of the island, they began paddling upstream.
Machk shouted something. Goodluck didn’t know the words, but it was obviously a warning that the rest of the French boats had seen them. A couple of the rearmost vessels were already beginning to come about.
Wequash Cook gave an order. The warriors paddling the canoes stopped doing anything but making an occasional stroke to keep the canoes pointed in the right direction.
A shout went up somewhere off to the right. Word passed from canoe to canoe. The English boats were turning around.
For a few minutes, the French longboats continued to close with the English. Then boats began swerving aside. Goodluck was sure there was a proper nautical term for it. But right now, all that mattered was that at least some of those boats were going to try to crash through the canoes.
Four, as far as he could see. Two and then two more a ways behind them. Others might be behind those, but Goodluck couldn’t see past them. They ought to . . . No, this was not going to be a battle of timely orders aimed at precise opportunities. It was his job to shoot French officers.
It took forever to close. Goodluck waited. When he thought the nearest French boat was one hundred fifty yards away, he fired his rifle. Clean miss. Goodluck reloaded as quickly as he could—which wasn’t very fast at all while seated in a canoe.
French muskets began firing at seventy yards. They would be effective at that range on land, but even the relatively smooth water of the Quinnehtukqut was enough to spoil their aim. The nearer of the two French boats was on course to pass to the right of Goodluck’s canoe. Very carefully, he turned so that he was facing backwards. That let him fire to his left instead of to his right, always a good thing with a flintlock. Then he waited.
At thirty yards, Goodluck steadied his SRG, picked out a Frenchman who appeared to be almost reloaded, and pulled the trigger. The man dropped out of sight. Goodluck thought he’d hit him, but . . . The two warriors paddling were angling for the longboat. From other canoes came the thunder of shotgun blasts. Goodluck saw two more French soldiers drop as well as a couple of the sailors manning the sweeps.
Then as his canoe reached point-blank range, he realized the Algonquian and English attack was all wrong. Those with shotguns shouldn’t be trying to board. But telling the Algonquians . . . Goodluck drew his pistol. At ten yards, he systematically shot every man at the starboard sweeps.
He was sure it took too many bullets, but slammed in a full magazine. When the bow of the canoe bumped into the longboat, the warrior in the bow leapt aboard, knife in hand. Goodluck was right behind him. He shot a French soldier, then realized that Algonquians were already boarding from the other side. Everyone was already too jumbled together. He had no shot.
Instead he turned to the stern, where three sailors quickly let go of the port sweeps and raised their hands. He pointed at the deck—or whatever the bottom of an open boat was called. The three understood at once and lay down.
A quick glance to his right revealed Algonquian warriors boarding the second French longboat. He couldn’t identify individuals, but at least two of them wore the team’s warpaint of yellow, red, black, and white quadrants.
The third French longboat was attempting to sail right between the two that were already engaged. The first wave—the team, the Pequots, and the Mohegans—were already committed. Goodluck checked behind him. The Algonquians were winning the fight in the bow.
He reloaded the SRG, knelt. With the barrel on the gunwale, he waited for the roll of the boat to bring him on target.
The SRG cracked, and a sailor at the starboard sweeps of the third boat went down. Goodluck reloaded.
One of the sailors he’d captured lurched to his feet. Goodluck laid him out with the butt of the SRG, then finished ramming. He knelt and laid the barrel across the gunwale again. Another crack, and a second sailor was down. The third one let go of his sweep. Good enough. Goodluck reloaded.
The longboat slewed. For a moment, Goodluck thought its crew might intend to come alongside the boat he was on. But then he realized that the sailors were still working the port sweeps. The boat was about fifty yards off, and soldiers in the boat leveled their muskets.
Then there was a crack, and one of them pitched into the river. That had to be Sakaweston. Goodluck was too busy reloading to look for him.
He spotted something out of the corner of his eye. More canoes. The remaining Algonquians were paddling hard, bypassing the first two longboats. The French soldiers fired, and Goodluck saw at least two men were hit.
But now the canoes were within fifty yards themselves. Goodluck saw bow paddlers drop flat in the several canoes. In each case, a passenger fired one of the precious shotguns. And fired again a couple seconds later. And again. Other canoes passed them, but their fire had hit a few men and forced others to take cover. Canoes came alongside, and a mixture of Wampanoags and Narragansetts flooded onto the longboat.
“Goodluck! Goodluck!”
He whirled. Hobbamock came toward him. He was covered with gore, but the way he was moving, most of it had to be other people’s blood.
“We have this one. And the next.”
“And the third.”
“Look!” Hobbamock pointed. “One is headed ashore!”
The Wampanoag pniese turned. “Team! Paddlers! Back in the canoes!”
That took a couple minutes. Warriors who were armed with knives and clubs jumped into the river and chased down canoes that had drifted away. They brought them alongside.
“Goodluck!”
Walter climbed over the side into a canoe.
“Stop!” Hobbamock ordered the paddlers. “We attack together! Not one at a time!”
Goodluck recognized the wisdom in that order, but time seemed to drag as they got organized. Finally the order came. “Go!”
Eight canoes set off. They carried Goodluck, several members of the team, Sassacus, and a dozen other warriors.
“The rest are making for shore!” Alden shouted to Goodluck.
Goodluck looked where Alden was pointing. Three more French longboats appeared to be angling for a clearing on the eastern bank, inside the great curve of the river.
Goodluck tracked the leading longboat, but did not fire. The canoe wasn’t stable enough for such a long-range shot. When the longboat grounded, men jumped out and splashed ashore. He wasn’t sure exactly how many there were. More than twelve but less than twenty.
Other canoes were visible to their right. A few had broken off from the second longboat and were on a converging course with Goodluck’s group. Others were coming from downstream.
The French soldiers assembled into a line. “Paddlers down!”
The French delivered a crisp volley and amazingly hit two men. A shotgunner in one canoe went down, mortally wounded. A warrior in the stern of another canoe was hit in the side, although not badly.
The Algonquian shotgunners immediately returned fire without any orders. The first shots were wildly inaccurate. Team members corrected. A couple Frenchmen went down.
The first canoes grounded, and Algonquian warriors leapt out. This was no careful assault with shotgunners softening up the target before men with knives and clubs closed in. It was a chaotic scramble.
“French on the left!”
That bellow was in English. Goodluck immediately turned in that direction and saw a longboat almost to shore.
“Shotguns! Shotgun the longboats!” He had lost track of Hobbamock. Lacking a translator, he simply grabbed an Algonquian who carried a shotgun. He wasn’t part of the team, but Goodluck bodily aimed him in the right direction. A moment later, the man shouted his own warning in one of the Algonquian languages.
The Puritan Robert Lockwood was at Goodluck’s side now. He and the Algonquian opened fire. Goodluck loaded the SRG. The longboats grounded. French soldiers jumped out and charged.
Goodluck shot the man leading the charge—so that the rest would see him fall. Lockwood and the Algonquian fired as fast as they could put shotgun shells in position and slam the barrels home. Goodluck drew his pistol and emptied a magazine in seconds.
The French scattered. Several were down. Goodluck saw a few run north along the riverbank.
Other Algonquians newly arrived on shore surged forward.
Someone shouted in Algonquian. Goodluck didn’t understand the words, but the Algonquians around him slowed.
“Drop your weapons! Drop your weapons!” That was Hobbamock, coming from further inland, off to Goodluck’s right. The rest he didn’t understand.
About twenty French soldiers formed rank. The dozen or so sailors formed up with them. They appeared to be armed with swords and knives.
“Apprêtez-vos armes!” The French readied their flintlocks. “Fire!” Hobbamock ordered.
Several shotguns discharged in a ragged volley. At least three French soldiers and a sailor fell. “Joue!” The barrels of the French muskets came down. But this time, Goodluck spotted the man giving the order.
A second shotgun volley tore into them. Goodluck fired three pistol shots. At least one hit the French commander.
“Surrender! On the ground!” Hobbamock roared.
A few of the sailors dropped their weapons and got down. “Feu!” a noncommissioned officer roared.
Both sides fired. The French volley was a thunderclap in the midst of individual shotgun blasts. Men screamed and fell.
The shotgunners reloaded and fired again. And again. And again. “Cease fire! Cease fire! Stay back!”
Goodluck heard more than one voice shouting the order. Hobbamock. Kuchamakin. Massasoit Ousamequin. No French were standing.
“Prisoners,” he called out. Hobbamock looked his way. “Why?”
Walter Goodluck blinked. “Battle’s over. It wasn’t their idea to attack us. Besides, some of us might get captured someday.”
Hobbamock gave him a very dubious look.
“And you need to send some of them back with a message.”
“We can send them a message.” Hobbamock’s voice was grim.
“No, we want these guys right here to go,” Goodluck told him. “Their commanding officer may or may not believe them, but the rest of the French soldiers will.”
Hobbamock considered that. “This bears thinking about.” Then he turned and started bringing order out of the chaos of the battlefield.
Goodluck holstered his pistol, shouldered his rifle, and began doing what he could for the wounded. “Doctors. They’re going to need doctors,” he muttered.
“Walter Goodluck!” Hobbamock’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Come!”
“Hobbamock, I can help . . . ”
“Sawseunck and others will heal who they can. The English boats are approaching. We need you there.”
Goodluck frowned and rose. He didn’t want to, but Hobbamock was right. The risk of a misunderstanding when everyone was armed . . . . “Hobbamock, we need Sakaweston and Samoset.”
“I have sent men to find them and the rest of the team. Uncas is assembling the men with shotguns.”
Goodluck checked his weapons and slowly turned in place. The Algonquians controlled the eastern bank of the river and apparently five longboats. The three they’d swarmed from their canoes were gliding slowly toward the riverbank. They’d already taken possession of the two the French had grounded there.
He peered north. It looked like the English colonists had taken some prizes, too. Good. One of the larger English boats landed, and soldiers poured off. It was the Dutch squad from Fort Hope. Their sergeant quickly formed a rank near their boat, but out of everyone’s way. The next boat was smaller and carried actual English colonists.
Edward Winslow was first out of the boat, with Lieutenant William Holmes right behind him. Winslow smiled and clasped arms as men greeted him, but he made his way straight to Massasoit Ousamequin.
“Edward! You have survived!”
One of the captured French boats reached shore. Sakaweston, Wequash Cook, and Eltweed Pomeroy splashed ashore.
“Walter!” Sakaweston thumped him heartily on the back. “Good to see you, too, Sakaweston.”
“I see you are victorious here. We were unable to stop two of the French boats. The fourth one waited until we all fought the first three, then skirted the shore. Later, another sailed close to the island after we had started this way.”
Goodluck pointed. “These two landed rather than face you. The colonists have taken some, too. You need to be there when we talk.”
“I understand.”
Sakaweston turned to Wequash Cook. “Are you gathering the team?”
Wequash Cook was still for a moment, then suddenly shook his head. “I was thinking about what I just saw. The power of the People from the Sky.”
“There are limits,” Goodluck reminded him. “Ammunition.”
“Oh, I know. Still . . . ” Wequash Cook shook his head again. “The two girls who sent the writing about the team, they talked about the God of the English, too. You follow this same God, but differently, yes? I would hear more, Walter Goodluck.” Then he moved off to gather the team.
Goodluck stared after the team’s co-leader for a moment, then he and Sakaweston approached the spot where the English landed, a little upstream of where the French had. He was glad to see Massasoit Ousamequin and Edward Winslow approaching, too. They met up short of the river’s edge.
“Who was in command?” Goodluck murmured.
“Colonel Fenwick,” Winslow answered. “With Captain Endecott on one flank and Captain Mason on the other. Although Captain Endecott wears his subordination lightly.”
Goodluck snorted. Then he noticed that the colonists were in formation.
George Fenwick turned to say something to John Endecott, and then the two of them came to meet them.
“Well fought,” Fenwick told them. “Well fought, indeed.”
“You carried out the feigned retreat perfectly,” Goodluck returned. “I hope your casualties are not severe.”
“A lot of good Englishmen are dead!” Endecott snapped. “Whereas the Indians . . . ”
“Boarded three longboats and faced the crews of two others here.” Sakaweston’s voice carried but his tone was reasonable.
“Probably a massacre. Colonel, we need to get over there.”
“A firefight at point-blank range,” Goodluck told them. “Relatively little hand-to-hand combat.” Endecott snorted. “From these savages?”
“The new guns end the battle,” Massasoit Ousamequin stated. He turned to Hobbamock and said something.
“We should plan what happens next,” Hobbamock translated. “We will give the French our terms,” Endecott growled.
Hobbamock translated Massasoit Ousamequin’s reply. “Massasoit Sassacus, Massasoit Canonicus, and I must speak. You—colonists, for you are English no longer—must speak. Let us speak together before any speak with the French.”
“We don’t have time for this. We must keep the pressure on the Fr—”
“This is not solely a military decision,” Edward Winslow interrupted. “It is why Walter advocated so strongly for an executive branch.” He smiled. “The Algonquians seem to have heard the same speech. That is the only way I can see Massasoit Ousamequin and Sassacus sharing command of the warriors while Canonicus took charge of the defense.”
“That is . . . accurate,” Massasoit Ousamequin allowed.
“Let us treat the wounded and bury the dead,” Winslow suggested.
Massasoit Ousamequin held up his hand. “We carry our dead back. Bury them . . . ” He turned to Hobbamock and explained in Wampanoag.
“Bury the warriors near the encampment where they can see the river. Yours, too. Let that be where we sign an alliance.”
“Not yet!” Endecott insisted. “How many longboats got past you?”
“Three escaped,” Sakaweston answered.
“About thirty soldiers, about twenty sailors,” Endecott said. “Colonel, your men said that two hundred landed. That means there are eighty French soldiers at Sovereignty. One hundred ten is as almost as many as they had here.”
“We cannot attack then,” Colonel Fenwick pointed out. “Soldiers of any skill at all will fall back to the shore under the guns of their ships.”
“You cannot leave them in control of the mouth of the Quinnehtukqut,” Goodluck agreed. “The colonists and the Algonquian both need the river for supplies from Europe.”
“There are too many French ships,” Endecott stated. For a wonder, he wasn’t arguing, just stating the obvious. “Unless you have ships . . . ?”
Goodluck shook his head. “I have no idea how I am going to find the Griffin.”
Hobbamock clapped him on the shoulder. “The ship sailed to New Amsterdam, yes? The team will take you there.” He gestured toward the Dutch squad. “And a couple Dutch soldiers, to avoid misunderstandings. They will want to report to . . . whomever runs the Dutch colony.”
“The Dutch have ships,” Sakaweston pointed out. “How many, I do not know. Perhaps enough to cause the French to withdraw.”
“We may be able to cause them to leave sooner than that.” Goodluck turned and surveyed the . . . battlefield, he supposed was the right word. “There are wounded. Give them back to the French. They will have to care for them. Keep those who might be saved if they are not moved. Send those who will survive anyway.”
“I do not know that many will survive.” Hobbamock wasn’t arguing with the idea, either, just pointing out the facts.
Goodluck gave them all a grim smile. “I am not suggesting this just because it is a good deed. The French have three longboats now. They’ve got one hundred ten men if Captain Endecott’s estimate is correct—and I think it is. We add wounded to that, and all the French will be thinking is that it will take four trips to get everyone out to the ships.
“Meanwhile, we will surround the French troops at Sovereignty. Not to attack, but to make them think we greatly outnumber them.” Goodluck spotted skepticism on several faces, Algonquian and English alike. “I got this from the great chief of the Shawnee tribe, Tecumseh. He and his tribe were allied to the English against the United States in the War of 1812. He and the British often made their numbers seem bigger than they were.” He explained briefly.
“I like this,” Massasoit Ousamequin declared. “What happened to Tecumseh?”
“He was killed in battle later in the war. His confederacy collapsed.”
“They started too late, you said,” Massasoit recalled. “We start early this time. Ally with colonies.”
“Good, because I took the next part from George Washington . . . .”
Outside Sovereignty
Saturday, August 29, 1637
The Pequot sachem Sassacus sighed. “I will say it, Walter Goodluck of the Diné. You are indeed a sachem to win such a battle without fighting. I still cannot tell if you force us to become like the People from the Sky to avoid what happened to us in your time.”
“We up-timers and the down-time Germans are becoming a new people,” Goodluck answered once Sassacus’ words were translated.
“So are we, it seems.” Sassacus did not sound entirely pleased by that. “Send some of these Germans. All of Canonicus’ list. I understand the need. But we must remain Algonquian.”
“I agree.” That was already different than saying his people must remain Pequot. Goodluck figured the less he said right now, the better. He kept his eyes on the many campfires burning in a huge semicircle around the ruins of Sovereignty.
That afternoon, the longboats had disembarked French prisoners, both the few unwounded and walking wounded, about a quarter mile from Sovereignty, then hastily rowed back upstream. Tonight, the Algonquians and the colonists had lit the campfires.
The French had seen those campfires, and their remaining boats had begun ferrying men back to the ships offshore. By now the evacuation was nearly complete.
“We need warriors here.” Massasoit Ousamequin’s words were sour. “What is the word, Sakaweston?”
“A garrison.”
“The team should lead it.”
“No, Massasoit Ousamequin.” Kuchamakin’s disagreement was respectful. “The team is needed elsewhere. First, we must escort Sachem Walter to New Amsterdam so that he may return to Europe on the Griffin. Then we must go ranging for any other English who have fled from the French and bring them to the river towns.”
The Algonquian and colonial leaders exchanged glances.
“Not me,” John Endecott stated. “I do not want garrison duty.”
“Uncas,” Sassacus said. “And Captain Mason.”
Uncas immediately frowned. “Do you send me away?”
“No. If all this is to work, I have to trust you out of my sight. You and Mason are able to work together. I have misgivings but it is necessary.”
“Independent command,” Sakaweston murmured. “Subject only to the councils. Not just Mohegans, of course.”
Uncas gave him half a smile. “Well spoken. I cannot refuse—and it does need to be done. Captain Mason?”
Mason nodded. “We can do this.”
“You must take the team back to the place of meeting in the morning,” Massasoit Ousamequin told Kuchamakin.
Uncas was grinning now. “Massasoit Ousamequin. And Massasoit Sassacus. You must go with them and take the English leaders. Leave proven warriors to lead the others back. Ninigret of the Niantic. Miantonomo of the Narragansett.” At their expressions, he shook his head. “Yes, it is strange. As recently as spring, I might have killed him. Now . . . ” He shrugged. “From what Walter Goodluck and Sakaweston have said, we need every warrior.”
Sunday, August 30, 1637
“Walter Goodluck, what do you think?” John Alden asked. “Should we fight, march, and sail on the Sabbath?”
He sounded genuinely curious. Walter smiled to himself. He might as well blow their minds.
“I had no problem marching and preparing to fight yesterday, John. The Sabbath is the seventh day, isn’t it?”
He saw Alden blink.
“I am a Seventh-Day Adventist. I do not care what the rest of you do on Sunday.” Alden chuckled. “I will let the pastors deal with that.”
The two of them, along with Hobbamock, Sakaweston, Wequash Cook, and Kiswas, were on one of the three boats hurrying north on the Quinnehtukqut River. They’d all take a turn rowing soon, spelling the English who were currently manning the sweeps. There were two shifts of colonists, because they did not plan to stop for the night.
Dorchester
Monday, August 31, 1637
Sakaweston motioned toward where Ousamequin, Sassacus, and Canonicus stood with Edward Winslow, John Winthrop the Younger, Harry Stiles, and Roger Ludlow. He grinned. “Massasoitunk. It is strange to need a plural.”
Goodluck nodded. “The Algonquians have made a good start. Keihtánit watch over you.”
“And you.” Sakaweston was quiet for a moment. “Come back, if you can. Bring your family when it is safe.”
Goodluck smiled. “I’m not sure what Helene will think of that idea.” He grimaced. “It will be a quiet trip home.”
Sakaweston nodded solemnly. “May we be friends with the no-longer-English for a long time.”
“I will send what I can. And who I can.”
The two men clasped forearms. Then Walter Goodluck approached the massasoitunk. “May the Lord keep you safe on the journey,” Winthrop said.
“Thank you. And may He watch over you here.”
Massasoit Ousamequin handed Goodluck a yellow feather and a string of shells. “I hope to see you again. If it is many years, and I am gone, show these, and the Wampanoag—may it be all the Algonquian—will welcome you or your descendants.”
Goodluck bowed and accepted the gifts.
One of the Dutch soldiers stepped forward. “I will get you into New Amsterdam, sir, if the . . . Algonquian can guide us through the forest.”
Goodluck looked over to where the team was gathering. Individual men were saying goodbye to wives and children. “Just like in Europe,” he murmured. “They will get us there, Corporal.”
A few minutes later, the team set off. The Algonquians had repainted their faces with the quartered yellow, red, black, and white. Kuchamakin had a slight limp but insisted the walk would do him good. Once the team was out of sight, and the children following them had returned, Massasoit Ousamequin turned to the others. “The French who burn villages are still a threat. Let us sit at the fire and smoke. We will talk land.”
New Amsterdam
Monday, September 21, 1637
Two Dutch soldiers watched the Griffin depart. One of them shook his head. “I was on duty, Jan, when those Indians and Pieter and Andries appeared with that up-timer.”
“He was not an up-timer,” Jan objected. “He was an Indian.”
“Up-timer Indian,” Koenrad said. “They walked from Fort Hope. Strangest muskets I have ever seen. He was lucky enough to catch the Griffin still in port.”
“Where did the rest of them go?” Jan asked.
“West, of all places. But they said they would be back in a few days.”
Months later
A Munsee found his way to a village where he’d been a war captive years before. It was occupied, and an alert Shawnee quickly shouted at him.
The Munsee showed his open hands.
He was roughly shoved into the center of the village. “Why are you here? Have you returned to spy?”
“My people have heard the story of the People from the Sky. They sent me because I can speak to you. They came to the land across the sea from a time yet to come. One of them is from a people far to sunsetting. Diné, that the white men call Navajo. I ask that I may tell the story as we heard it and then depart. Do with it as you will. Maybe you will tell the next people to sunsetting.”
“Speak then, and we will hear.”
~ Author’s note ~
With the exception of the already established characters Fast as Lightning and Machk, all other Algonquian and English colonial characters are historical.