Hello!
Here is a new chapter!
If you haven't seen it yet, here's a map of North America after the Treaty of London (1762): https://postimg.cc/s1K0rV3w
Thank you Mium, paffnytij, Galan_05, Lizeer, Shingle_Top, Porthos10, AlexZero12, First_Time_****, and Yilena_Gomez for your support!
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A lazy white smoke rose from the central fire, filling the longhouse with the familiar scent of burning wood. The flames, a mesmerizing yellow, crackled softly as they slowly consumed the freshly added branches.
Beneath them remained only the glowing remnants of charred logs and ash.
A heavy silence hung over the vast structure.
On the other side of the fire, facing the Frenchmen lined up like convicts awaiting execution, sat an assembly of men and women with stern faces. They were comfortably seated on animal pelts, watching the French as if preparing to devour them alive.
At the center sat one of the most influential Royaner of the Mohawk people, chief of the Bear clan.
He was of the same generation as Akwiratheka, and had once fought alongside the redcoats and Chief Hendrick Theyanoguin.
A thick red cloak rested on his broad shoulders, revealing a multitude of necklaces, among them a well-polished British gorget.
His impassive face bore many tattoos, including two lines extending from the corners of his mouth, giving him the illusion of a perpetual smile.
Since the man never actually smiled, this made him particularly intimidating to the French.
Upon his head was a curious headdress, somewhat resembling an oriental turban, adorned with feathers, from which spilled thick, ash-gray hair.
Other Royaner sat beside him—faces unknown, but filled with authority. There were also influential women, former warriors, and respected war chiefs.
Finally, the Mohawk warriors who had brought François and his men to Canajoharie were present as well, standing in the background, serving as witnesses.
All of them exuded a cold and distant aura. The warriors, even while still, wore a natural martial presence like a second skin, akin to the old Marshal-Duke of Richelieu, or Akwiratheka himself.
On the left side of the longhouse sat Molly Brant and her mother. Modestly dressed, wrapped in woolen gowns and cloaks, hands folded on their knees, they held themselves with dignity and watched the French silently, radiating hostility.
Due to Joseph Brant's actions during the Six Years' War, their voices had lost much of their weight in council. Fortunately, the young Brant's mistakes hadn't stripped them of all their influence.
The first to speak was the old, tattooed Royaner seated across from François.
"This fire burns today to remind us that the word is sacred. It unites families, clans, and nations. It was around a fire like this one that peace was sealed with the other Nations. A fire was needed for us to gather around, and a roof to shelter us as we spoke—because when men stop speaking, it is the weapons that speak in their place."
He fell silent for a long moment, and no one dared make a sound. The air seemed to grow heavier.
"Today it burns so we may speak and listen. The blood of our warriors was spilled on our land. Those responsible must answer for their actions—but not without being judged by our laws, and not in anger."
A faint murmur rippled through the assembly, quickly silenced by the chief's unyielding gaze. Molly Brant lowered her eyes, displeased, but said nothing.
Most of those present nodded. The French brought too many goods, too many opportunities to be condemned hastily.
"Ratonhnhaké:ton, you who were there—tell us what you saw, leaving nothing out."
François turned his head. The broad-shouldered warrior, though no match for forces of nature like Tayohseron or his father, stepped forward. He had been the one to lead them here.
"Chief," he said, taking on a humble tone he hadn't felt the need to use with the French, "this morning, while my brother Tayenaton was walking near the river, he saw the English settling on our land. With your approval, we gathered warriors, and I led them to drive the intruders out. But as soon as they saw us, they raised their weapons at us. We ordered them several times to leave, but they refused."
"Did they speak our language?"
"No, Chief. We tried to make ourselves understood… in other ways."
The Royaner's face grew hard.
"Be clear. How did you make them understand they weren't welcome?"
"Through our gestures. We shouted, made wide movements, raised our weapons. But their muskets were already aimed at us. They fired first. We returned fire."
"So you defended yourselves. Go on."
"My brother took advantage of the chaos to attack the one who seemed to be their leader. But he wasn't strong enough. He was captured. That's when the French arrived."
A murmur swept through the council again, more insistent this time, once more stifled by the silent authority of the chief.
"What happened then? What did they do?"
"They spread out, but didn't raise their weapons. Their leader—the one with the scar above his left eye—started talking to the settlers. They spoke in English. I don't know exactly what he said."
"What was his demeanor?"
"I believe he was trying to free my brother. To convince the English to leave. Once the smoke had cleared, he told me he had done everything he could to make them understand they were on our land."
Silence fell once again. All eyes turned to François, but for most of them, it did not change the gravity of what was being blamed on him.
"What happened next?"
"The leader of the English settlers slit my brother's throat, and we killed him. Then his companions tried to avenge him. We suffered… several losses. These settlers are the only survivors. They were fifteen at first. Only ten remained when the French arrived."
The chief frowned but refrained from commenting. For now, his role was to ask questions.
"Did the French take part in the fighting?"
"No."
The warrior hesitated briefly, his eyes sliding toward François, then added:
"They didn't have time to intervene. The exchange of gunfire was very short. The Englishmen who were threatening us were few in number."
At these words, several Elders, visibly displeased upon hearing of the French inaction, seemed to relax slightly. But their unease remained—intact, palpable. Everyone knew the heart of the issue had not yet been addressed.
The chief resumed, his voice a little deeper:
"I see. How did the French behave after the confrontation? Were they angry? Did they criticize your actions?"
François felt that the questions were not neutral. They seemed loaded with implications, with judgment.
But the warrior shook his head.
"No, Chief. They were… sad, I think. I spoke at length with their commander. He told me he had done everything he could to prevent the bloodshed. He was very polite and respectful. They agreed to follow us to the village to be heard, handed over their weapons, and offered their help to carry our dead or support our wounded."
Several faces softened. Suspicion gave way to surprise, and even a cautious kind of sympathy. But a few expressions remained cold, stern, unyielding.
François's gaze met that of a woman with angular features and dark eyes. They gleamed with icy hostility.
He blinked.
Who is she? I feel like I've seen her before. She seems to hate me. Ah… Probably because I'm French. It will likely take a long time before all this hatred fades…
"Is there anything else you wish to say to the council?"
"Hmm, yes," the warrior replied after a brief pause. "Their commander told me about a second group of English settlers. The French arrested them all without a fight."
A murmur ran through the longhouse. The chief raised his hand to call for silence.
"More intruders? How many were there? And where are they now?"
"About fifteen, I think. The French convinced them to surrender and swear allegiance to their king. Then they took them away, and a small part of the French force continued further into our lands to stop the second group. That's all I know."
The Mohawk chiefs nodded, and the witness was invited to return to his place. The old Royaner then turned to François.
"Frenchman, if I understand correctly, you speak our language. Do you need an interpreter?"
"That won't be necessary, Chief. I believe I speak your language well enough to understand and be understood."
The chief raised an eyebrow in surprise. He hadn't expected this Frenchman to be so fluent in their language.
It wasn't an easy one to learn. His impression of the officer improved slightly.
"Good. That will make this discussion easier. Before we begin, know that words carry weight. Measure them carefully before speaking."
François bowed respectfully and waited for the first question.
"You've heard Ratonhnhaké:ton's testimony. Do you wish to correct or add anything to his account?"
"Everything he said is true," François replied in a clear voice. "I can only add what happened beforehand."
He then began to speak. His voice was steady, and his words flowed like a river. In moments, he had captivated his audience.
The assembly listened without moving. Some exchanged glances. The most hostile among them tensed. Others looked troubled.
When he finished, silence fell again.
The chief tilted his head slightly, his voice taking on a darker tone:
"So, when you entered our territory, you had received no permission. You came with weapons… to prevent a confrontation."
"Yes, Chief."
"Once on our land, did you send anyone to inform us of your presence or intentions?"
"No, Chief. I didn't. I… didn't want to involve you. I thought it would be better to act quickly, alone, to prevent things from getting worse. I didn't want to stir up tensions between your people and the British, knowing your anger was already immense."
A murmur of disapproval rose, but the Royaner was not finished. He continued asking questions for several minutes, and each time, François faced them without dodging or shifting the blame.
Long before entering this longhouse, he had decided not to deny or downplay his responsibility.
He knew how much the Iroquois despised the Onewachten—liars—and cowards.
The Iroquois exchanged a few quiet words among themselves.
"So, you admit it," the Iroquois chief resumed in a more severe tone. "You acknowledge your fault?"
"Yes, Chief," François replied humbly.
Another silence followed—of a different nature.
The Iroquois reacted differently to these words. While some strongly condemned the intrusion and the French intervention, they approved of the officer's attitude.
The chief slowly nodded.
"You acted rashly, even if your intentions were good," said the old, tattooed chief in a calm but cutting voice. "You chased those settlers like a hunter. But a good hunter knows the boundaries of his hunting ground. Our laws judge actions, not intentions. These woods are not your hunting ground, Frenchman—and you knew that."
François lowered his head, acknowledging his mistakes.
The Royaner gave the floor to the Elders, the clan mothers, and the other Royaner. More questions followed, though only a few voices spoke up to firmly condemn his actions.
Among them was Margaret, the mother of Joseph Brant. She stood and spoke, her tone firm and accusatory.
"You said you had no time to warn us? But you had time to come to our lands with your weapons? I say you didn't want to warn us because you don't respect our laws."
Some of the Elders nodded in approval, encouraging the woman, her features drawn with tension, to continue.
"Your soldiers followed you—and when they could have acted, they did nothing! You watched our warriors fight and die! At least the English would have fought beside us!"
Her accusatory words stirred the crowd, and a war chief, seemingly about François's age, spoke up.
"You speak as if they could have acted. But one of our own was taken hostage. Would you have had them shoot through him to hit the others?"
"They could have tried to force them to surrender!"
"That's exactly what they did!" another answered, his jaw clenched. "This Frenchman tried to reason with them!"
"He did! And besides, the English would have defended their settlers!"
Voices rose around the fire. The words, slow and ceremonial at first, slipped into invective, each person trying to be heard over the others.
François remained silent while his companions, not understanding the language, grew increasingly worried.
"SILENCE!"
The voice of Royaner Brant Canagaraduncka, Joseph Brant's adoptive father and Margaret's husband, cracked like a gunshot through the longhouse. Everyone fell silent and sat down.
Canagaraduncka, tall and imposing despite his age, looked around at the council members, then fixed his gaze on François.
"We have heard the testimonies. It is clear the French tried to prevent this confrontation. If there is one to blame, it is the settler who refused to hear reason until the end. He is dead."
He paused briefly.
"Tell me, Frenchman, does your king claim our lands? Does your governor believe this river belongs to him?"
François felt a great weight upon his shoulders, as if a giant were pressing down with hands capable of crushing stone.
He inhaled slowly, choosing his words carefully.
"No," he said. "By the joint Proclamation signed with the King of Great Britain, these lands are and will remain yours. They are your ancestral lands. And to be frank, we do not have the means to take them from you—everyone knows that. That is precisely why we place such great value on the diplomatic relations we build with the tribes. We need you—to keep English appetites in check."
Even the most hostile Elders found nothing to say in response to such an admission. This officer had clearly stated that they depended on them, acknowledging their strength and importance.
In a way, it was flattering.
François continued.
"We did not come as conquerors. We came as quickly as we could because we learned that about thirty armed settlers were heading toward your lands. We feared a clash, an incident that could reopen the gates of war. We acted in urgency… on my recommendation."
He paused again, then bowed.
"I acknowledge that I acted wrongly in doing so, and I offer you my sincerest apologies. I am ready to accept the consequences."
François bowed lower still—so low that his forehead touched the hide that covered the floor.
A heavy silence followed his apology. The officer's demeanor deeply unsettled several members of the council.
They had not expected to see a Frenchman bow before them and submit himself so openly to Mohawk justice—renowned for its severity.
Only the soft crackle of the fire burning at the center of the longhouse and the sigh of the wind against the vast structure could still be heard.
Then, an imposing figure entered.
Wrapped in a wide brown bearskin, he walked with a calm, confident gait, exuding a presence that commanded attention.
It was Chief Akwiratheka. Onatah's father.
As big as a mountain, strong like a prehistoric beast, he didn't seem to have aged much since becoming a grandfather. A few wrinkles crossed his face, as hard as stone, but his eyes still shone with fierce clarity.
His entrance naturally drew attention. Everyone turned around.
"Chief Akwiratheka…"
Though he didn't lead the largest village of the Confederacy, this chief was well known and among the most respected. Heir to Hendrick, he had managed to make his voice resonate far beyond his own clan.
A great warrior.
A man with a strong temper, a free spirit—unpredictable. Dangerous.
He was known for his hostility toward the French, like his adoptive father. At least, until the end of the last war. His daughter had married one of them, and most of the trade with that kingdom now passed through his village.
No one knew where he stood in this affair.
"I see you've started without me," the chief said simply, unfazed by the many eyes upon him. "Allow me to join you."
He walked forward with firm steps and passed in front of everyone, confident like a lead actor arriving late to set. He didn't hesitate to shove past those already seated.
Then he stopped in front of François. Their eyes met, and a smirk formed on his lips.
"Well, boy," he said in a calm, almost mocking voice, "are you getting scolded?"
François blinked, uncomfortable.
"Ah… yes."
"Good. Seems I was right to hurry here."
Without another word, he sat among the Elders. Eyes met, breaths were held.
With just those few words, the Elders understood the situation had just grown more complicated.
Something had shifted.
A Royaner spoke, tension in his face:
"Chief Akwiratheka… you… know this man?"
"Do I know him? Of course."
The Elders' unease deepened. They had been close to reaching a decision, but now everything seemed to slip away.
"This boy is my daughter's husband. He is the father of my grandchildren. He's not broad-shouldered, but he's no coward. Their colonel sent a missionary to explain the situation to me. I don't know what happened afterward… and frankly, I don't care. What matters is that he has my approval."
A sudden tension rippled through the circle. One of the chiefs, seated to the right of the tattooed-faced elder, frowned and began sweating heavily.
"Th-that's not how this works! He didn't act on your lands! H-he even acted before you gave your approval."
Akwiratheka stopped smiling and stared at the chief who had just spoken. His eyes turned cold, and the man across from him seemed to wither.
"So what? He acted for the good of our people. He acted quickly. Even if he crossed some lines—so what? And if the problem is that he's French… then hear this: he is also one of us. He was adopted into our clan."
A stunned silence followed that declaration. Another Royaner, younger, stammered:
"P-pardon? Chief Akwiratheka… You… your clan adopted this young man?"
"Is there a problem with that?" the great warrior replied coldly, crossing his thick arms.
"N-no! Of course not! Um… Has he been given a name?"
Akwiratheka nodded and gave a faint smile.
"He bears the name Kanonhkwatshera."
"The one who protects the house," murmured the tattooed-faced chief, thoughtful. "That is a name of great responsibility."
The Royaner thought quickly. This information changed many things—and at the same time, not much.
He heard another chief whisper that being part of their clan did not give one the right to act alone, without authorization. But Akwiratheka spoke before the words could be repeated.
"This boy acted to protect our people. He consulted no one, that's true, but it's justifiable in an emergency. And this was one. Would you not have done the same?"
The old chief frowned and squinted. His tattoos, faded with time, seemed to stir like grey snakes.
"Your daughter's husband may be one of us, but he acted as a Frenchman. Am I wrong?"
François saw the opportunity being offered. He could have taken it—used his Iroquois identity as a shield—but he didn't.
"No," he answered in a guilty, sincerely remorseful tone, "you are right. I acted as a Frenchman, a friend and ally of the Confederacy, of the Mohawk people. It would be dishonest to claim I acted as a Mohawk. I acted out of duty, loyalty, and friendship. I offer you again my most sincere apologies."
François bowed once more before the circle of Elders after exchanging a brief look with Akwiratheka. The latter did not react.
The Elders remained silent for a long moment.
From their point of view, white men were proud people. Arrogant, even. Rare were those willing to bow and take responsibility.
William Johnson, the former Superintendent of Indian Affairs, well known in Canajoharie, was one of them. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of his replacement.
Perhaps it would have been easier if this man had been like most of his peers. Easier to condemn.
Silence took on a solemn weight. Even the fire seemed to quiet, as if waiting for the council's decision.
The Royaner with the tattooed face leaned toward his neighbors and exchanged a few quiet words, his expression unreadable. Finally, he straightened and fixed his gaze on the Frenchmen—dark eyes glowing like lanterns.
His voice rose slowly, but with an eerie strength.
"Your words are humble, and your apology sincere. But they are not enough to erase the insult."
He paused for a moment, scanning the faces around him. From the corner of his eye, he glanced toward Akwiratheka.
Thick veins ran along the backs of the great warrior's hands and up his powerful arms.
For a brief instant, he imagined the giant rising, grabbing his head, and shoving it into the flames.
Gulp.
"Y-your actions, though motivated by a noble intent, have deeply offended our people. You acted as if we did not exist, as if these lands were yours, as if our laws no longer mattered. Reparation is needed—not only for our people, but to calm the spirits. We will present our demands to your colonel and your governor so that balance may be restored."
He paused briefly, as if to catch his breath. Discreetly, he checked Akwiratheka's reaction and felt a wave of relief seeing him still seated.
"As for the blood spilled—you are not responsible. You did everything you could to prevent it. The settlers, however, will remain here to answer for their actions. And when the time comes to speak in Albany, we will demand your support. As for you and your soldiers… you may leave. But let this be understood: this must never happen again. In the future, your men will only be tolerated if they accompany our warriors and have our consent. Is that clear?"
"Yes. Very clear. Thank you."
François bowed several times, rose slowly, and exited the longhouse.
At a distance, Molly Brant and her mother watched the Frenchmen slip away from justice with visible disappointment and anger.
Even if the clan was to receive compensation—and it would likely be significant—it would never be enough in their eyes.
Outside, the pale light of late afternoon testified to the time that had passed since the confrontation with the English settlers.
The soldiers were greeted at once by a freezing breeze from the north.
François explained what had happened. They were visibly relieved to learn they would be returning to Fort Bourbon.
Akwiratheka emerged shortly after with a few men—warriors of his own generation, with whom he seemed to share an easy camaraderie. They exchanged a few words at the entrance of the longhouse.
It was too late to leave that evening.
The French were allowed to spend the night in Canajoharie. A secondary shelter was offered to them—spartan, but more than sufficient to keep out the cold.
François, as the son-in-law of a respected chief, was granted a special privilege: a place in a longhouse.
There, he shared a warm meal with his father-in-law and his companions. The atmosphere was more relaxed now, filled with anecdotes, memories, and bursts of laughter.
Then he fell into a deep sleep.
It was marked by nightmares.
He found himself once more on the battlefields of Europe, enduring long sieges, hearing the screams of his men, the hiss of bullets passing near his ears, the crash of cannonballs against wooden palisades.
In his final nightmare—just before he woke with a start—he saw the face of Joseph Brant looming over him, twisted with hatred, a large knife in hand, trying to cut out his tongue.