Back To The Mohawk Village

Hello!

Here is a new chapter!

Thank you mium, Jon_Laed , aon_8940, Shingle_Top, First_Time_****, Dekol347, Porthos10, ThisguyAEl , Ranger_Red and Me_jelly for the support!

Enjoy!

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Adam was riding an old brown-haired mare, as it was the only horse the army could offer him without compromising the needs of the fort or the troops. In a modern, peaceful world, the poor creature, given its advanced age, would have deserved a well-earned retirement, spending its days in a pasture with soft grass.

Alas, horses were so rare in New France that only senior officers could have one. The others were used for transporting cannons or supplies.

He was riding at a very moderate pace along a narrow path following the Hudson River, as it was important to spare the horse and not outdistance his escort.

Indeed, venturing alone into Indian territory was out of the question. Even an experienced man would not take such a risk. It wasn't just a matter of prestige.

To avoid offending or making the Mohawks nervous, Adam had set out with four of his men, including Soldier Petit and Soldier Tournier. The group also included two other soldiers: Basile Laplace, nicknamed Beauregard because of his striking eyes, and Emmanuel Leduc, whom everyone called Manu.

Even on such an old horse, Adam felt as though he cut an imposing figure. This was only the second time he had ridden one of these creatures since his transmigration. In his previous life, he had had the chance to ride three or four times during activities organized by the summer camp he attended before arriving here.

The air was warm and dry, and the sky was a deep lapis-lazuli blue. Fluffy white clouds floated above, carried by a pleasant breeze.

A few flies buzzed around, pestering the group and testing everyone's patience. The horse, named Tulip, frequently flicked her tail to shoo them away.

They were roughly following the path taken many months earlier when Adam had been escorted by Tayohseron, the second son of Chief Akwiratheka, back to Fort Bourbon—then known as Fort Edward—after a brief stay in their village. Despite the time that had passed and the events of the previous autumn, Adam vaguely remembered the way.

The village he was trying to reach, however, was not nearby, and the landscapes here all looked alike. He could easily get lost and head in the wrong direction.

They crossed the wide river at a fordable point and continued along a new path, narrower and more winding than the last, which ran through the woods. If his memory served him well, and if they followed this Iroquois trading route without deviation, they should reach the village without trouble.

"Captain," said Soldier Tournier, swatting for the thousandth time at a particularly persistent fly, "we… we're not in any danger, right?"

"With me, no," Adam replied. "Once in the village, don't do anything stupid… or better yet, don't do anything at all. If someone provokes you, take it in silence. We mustn't upset them."

The soldier lowered his head. Everyone was nervous. It was natural, as these four men had been born in the colony. They knew who the Mohawks were and what they were capable of.

If things went wrong, they might return to Fort Bourbon without their scalps—perhaps without their fingers or ears—or not return at all. Since childhood, they had been told gruesome stories about them.

Unfortunately, in many cases, those stories were not exaggerated. The Mohawks could be extremely violent and cruel, making the Rogers' Rangers seem like choirboys by comparison.

The forest was strangely quiet, as if it were holding its breath. The branches of the pines formed a dense canopy, filtering the sunlight of late June and casting a mysterious shadow over the undergrowth.

Like Adam and his men, Tulip seemed uneasy. The old mare's steps were cautious, and her ears were alert to the slightest suspicious sound.

Adam kept a sharp eye on the trees and bushes, aware that an arrow could strike him in the chest at any moment. Even though he had already visited the Mohawk village, nine months had passed since then.

Though he had been well-received and accepted at the time, they were not old friends. And this time, he wasn't alone. If he could have, he would have come without an escort to minimize the risk.

He felt as though he had a giant target painted on his white-gray coat, waving a sign that said, "Attack us!"

Despite his solid appearance and stoic expression, Adam was as uneasy as his subordinates. The farther they traveled, the more he felt his heart pounding in his chest.

The prospect of meeting the Mohawk chief was naturally what frightened him the most about this situation. The last time they had crossed paths, back in October during the attack on Fort Edward, Adam had taken the chief's third son hostage.

He had not forgotten, and there was little doubt that the chief hadn't either.

A sudden crack stopped him dead in his tracks. His hand instinctively went to the hilt of his saber as he listened, tense. The sound had come from a bush a few steps ahead.

He held his breath.

"C-Captain…" whispered the soldier Petit to his left, barely audible.

Adam made a small but clear gesture toward the young soldier, signaling him to stay quiet.

Everyone stiffened, their senses suddenly on high alert.

Suddenly, a figure leaped out of the shadows with the agility of a predator. Adam's horse stepped back, and the rider tightened his grip on his weapon, ready to draw, but he immediately recognized the young, grinning face of Tehonwaskaron.

It was indeed the chief's fourth son, the boy Adam had saved from the clutches of a bear!

The young Mohawk had also recognized him, which was clearly why he had revealed himself. His smile was enormous, and he seemed genuinely delighted to see Adam. He began speaking rapidly in his language, so fast that Adam couldn't understand a single word.

Had Adam not heard this strange language before, he might have sworn the boy was mocking him with absurd sounds.

"Everything's fine," Adam said quickly to his men. "I know him. He's the youngest son of the Mohawk chief. Hey, kid. Long time no see, huh?"

Adam raised his hand in a big wave to greet the boy and try to communicate with him. Even though he had managed to memorize a few words of their strange language—thanks, in no small part, to François's remarkable gift—he was far from fluent.

Maybe with practice, he could hold full conversations with the people of this nation in a few months?

"Uh, can you guide us to the village? Uh… You… Guide… us? Village?"

The boy burst out laughing at Adam's clumsy attempt but nodded and motioned for them to follow.

"Looks like he understood," Adam murmured. "He's signaling us to follow him."

"C-Captain, are you sure it's safe?" asked the visibly nervous soldier Tournier.

"If there's any danger, it will be farther ahead. When we reach the village, we'll need to be especially vigilant but show no fear. I don't know much about them, but from what I do know, they don't like cowards or weaklings."

"S-So we need to appear firm but not arrogant?"

"Exactly. Just be dignified, like during a parade. That should be enough."

"And if they attack us?" Tournier couldn't help but ask, his eyes fixed on the small boy walking a few steps ahead of them.

"Well, we'll defend ourselves, but if possible, I'd like to avoid any bloodshed. The goal is to make them our allies."

The four soldiers all wore identical expressions of skepticism. Relations with the Iroquois had always been delicate for the French.

Although peace treaties had been signed between their nations, they had never lasted long. From their perspective—one that was, of course, far from neutral—it was entirely the Iroquois' fault, tied to their culture, which they deemed savage.

The far more complex and nuanced reality eluded them. All they saw was that their officer was leading them straight into the lion's den, and there was a good chance they wouldn't make it out alive.

After about half an hour, Adam turned to his men, his face serious.

"We're almost there. Once again, no gestures that could be misinterpreted and absolutely no provocation. Do exactly as I say, and everything will be fine."

The soldiers, now more nervous than ever, nodded silently.

Adam kept his eyes on the boy's back as he walked calmly through the woods as if strolling in a park.

Finally, the village came into view—or rather, the tall palisade surrounding it. Thin columns of white smoke rose here and there between the trees.

Naturally, their arrival did not go unnoticed. It didn't take long for the small group to find themselves surrounded by Mohawks.

***

In a longhouse slightly larger than the others and close to the matriarch's, an important meeting was taking place.

Chief Akwiratheka and his two eldest sons, the matriarch, and her apprentice were present. The atmosphere was heavy, filled with a solemnity that forbade any trace of levity.

The chief, comfortably seated on a wide animal pelt, had his arms crossed over his broad, solid chest as usual. Draped across it was a thick, high-quality red cape, and around his neck hung numerous necklaces and trinkets—both good luck charms and hunting trophies.

His dark eyes fixed intensely on his guest and the gifts he had brought: weapons, tobacco, alcohol, jewelry, and fine fabrics that would undoubtedly make excellent garments.

Yet, he did not smile.

William Johnson, seated in a similar manner across from the chief and dressed in his usual mix of European and Iroquois clothing, was sweating profusely, aware of the stakes. The conversation dragged on, but it wasn't progressing as he had hoped.

"Chief Akwiratheka," he said softly, "we understand why your people and the rest of the Confederacy signed a peace treaty with the French, but don't make the mistake of thinking they are your friends. Keep in mind that they are more deceitful than a serpent. Their hearts are wicked, full of malice. They will stab you in the back as soon as they have the chance. Haven't they proven time and again that they are untrustworthy?"

Akwiratheka stared at him without blinking, though his sons seemed receptive. Kahionhes and Tayohseron glanced nervously at their father, who was known more for being a fierce warrior than a skilled diplomat.

"Brother Warraghiyagey" (the Indian name given to William Johnson around 1742), he replied with surprising calm, "your warnings are unnecessary. We know who the French are. We are merely trading partners, nothing more. Since we signed this peace treaty, we've engaged in numerous exchanges, and their offers have always been very generous. Why should we break these ties without a valid reason?"

The chief saw his friend's face fill with despair. He continued in the same even tone, as if nothing mattered.

"If their intentions are truly bad, then we will stop trading with them and go to war again. For now, what you ask of us is simply not possible. We have no reason to end our exchanges just because it displeases you."

The chief's two sons, who were perfect replicas of him in his youth—especially the eldest, who was taller and stronger—raised their eyebrows in surprise. It was rare to see their father so calm and composed.

In the past, he would likely have lost his temper and barked at Johnson for daring to give him such open advice on managing his tribe.

The chief's sons also tried not to look too intently at the gifts the Englishman had brought that day. They remained silent, merely observing the conversation.

Nearby, the matriarch did the same, keeping her thoughts carefully to herself.

William Johnson furtively glanced at the faces of those present. He felt as though he had lost all credibility and that his words weren't even reaching them.

His heart ached, for he had done so much to maintain and strengthen the ties between the British and the Iroquois. Of course, he wasn't ready to give up so easily.

"Chief, their intentions are not what they seem. These exchanges are merely bait to lull you into dependence on their goods. Once you rely on them, they will betray you! If you wait to see their true intentions, it will be too late!"

The chief let out a cold laugh at these words and narrowed his eyes, staring at his guest, who was an old friend, as he had been with his predecessor.

"We can protect ourselves very well, Brother Warraghiyagey. Our warriors are strong and numerous. We are not afraid of the French. If they break the treaty we signed, we will make them pay for their treachery. For now, you only have concerns. Why should we sacrifice a trade that benefits our people just to ease your mind?"

Johnson was about to say something, but the chief raised a hand to signal he was not finished.

"You say you're concerned for our safety, my friend. Do you think you can help us? Ahah, yet you can't even defend your own forts and towns."

William Johnson grimaced but chose to remain silent.

"The French," the chief continued after exchanging a brief look with his adoptive sister, the matriarch, "have so far kept their promises. They've allowed us to trade peacefully with other peoples, and our commerce has never been better."

"But if it leads to your downfall, what does it matter?! As you said, we've suffered defeats—humiliations, even! Do you think peace will last forever?! They will surely turn against you next! They are a threat to all peoples! That's why you must not grow closer to them! Let's unite our forces to destroy them! It's the only way! For the sake of your children, as well as mine!"

The chief's expression hardened, and Johnson immediately knew he had made a mistake by mentioning their children. It was a sensitive topic for this man, and the chief knew Johnson wasn't unaware of that.

He could only think his friend was trying to manipulate him by playing that card.

"And if I refuse?" he asked in a tone so low it made his two sons tremble like leaves and forced the matriarch to open her eyes.

William Johnson swallowed hard and lowered his gaze reflexively before raising it again to meet the chief's, who deeply despised weakness.

"Then so be it; we can do nothing about it. But most importantly, chief, ensure that your warriors do not join the French ranks. That must not happen under any circumstances. Your people risk being dragged into a war that neither you nor I want."

The chief's expression shifted again, and his gaze became more ruthless. The matriarch, like everyone present, now expected him to brandish his tomahawk.

"Are you threatening me, Brother Warraghiyagey? Choose your words carefully."

"N-no! Don't misunderstand me, chief! I am simply concerned! I truly do not want conflict between us! As I said at the start of this conversation, our only aim has always been to preserve peace between our peoples and ensure a prosperous future for generations to come! Our ties are old and strong, no doubt about that, but if you actively support our enemies, our relations will be permanently damaged! That's what I want to avoid at all costs!"

"And that's why you've brought these 'gifts,'" murmured Chief Akwiratheka in a very low tone.

"To strengthen our ties. I can bring much more! But I beg you, do not be swayed by the sweet promises the French may make to you. Their words are a deadly poison! This can only lead to great misfortune. In the worst case, you could be annihilated!"

The chief and his children raised their eyebrows in surprise and skepticism.

"What do you mean, Brother Warraghiyagey?" the matriarch finally asked, closing her eyes and slowly turning her wrinkled face toward their still very nervous guest.

"Of c-course reinforcements are on their way. They should arrive in the New World within the coming weeks. After all, our successive defeats require a swift and decisive response. There will certainly be more arriving once news of Boston's destruction reaches London—if it hasn't already. All lost territories will be reclaimed, and then some. Quebec, Montreal, Louisbourg, Nova Scotia, Massachusetts—we will recover them all. I fear that, should you act rashly, your people may be swept away. That is why I beg you, I implore you, Chief Akwiratheka, to stay as far away from the French as possible!"

A heavy silence fell over the house, but the matriarch remained unfazed by the weight of this information. In a voice clear and full of wisdom, she addressed Johnson with a faint smile.

"We will not forget your words and your warnings. You have always shown great respect for our values, our culture, our traditions, and have sought to defend our interests when threatened by your people. We must now reflect on your warnings."

"But know this," added Akwiratheka, "our decisions will not be dictated by promises or threats. Go now."

As the diplomat rose to leave, his thoughts racing, a young warrior entered the great room. Atop his head were several tall, colorful feathers, and an impressive black tattoo covered much of his face. Without hesitation, the warrior leaned in to whisper something into the chief's ear.

The chief's face immediately flushed with anger, but he remained silent toward the Englishman.

"Brother Warraghiyagey, stay a while longer. We may have more to discuss."

"Hmm?"

William Johnson obeyed silently. Without understanding what was happening, he watched as the chief whispered inaudible words to the matriarch, who showed no reaction. She simply nodded and replied in the same manner before rising, leaning heavily on her staff. Without a word, she left the longhouse and disappeared.