Origins_Revolution Read online

  Captain Hastelloy still insisted that no advanced machinery, like communication radios, could leave the village except in the direst circumstances. If advanced tools were found by the humans, the potential for cultural contamination was far too great. This, unfortunately, left the crewmen scattered around the continents with the difficult task of communicating with one another; which is where the village came in.

  The one constant on this planet for the Novi crew was the hiding place of the Nexus. Whenever crewmen left the village, they documented their identity, whereabouts, and task to accomplish in a central log. If discoveries were made or anyone ran into trouble, they sent word back to the village where the caretaker could send couriers to the rest of the scattered crew. From start to finish the process could take weeks, but it did the job.

  Sometimes the tedious protective duty lasted mere months. Other times it was decades spent living in the simple village before a replacement arrived. It was just the luck of the draw, and now Valnor was at the mercy of Lady Luck.

  “Unless I am losing my touch, I think the duration of your stint here will be much shorter than you think,” Captain Hastelloy said with raised eyebrows. As if on cue, a soft hum became audible from behind Valnor.

  He turned around and followed the sound over to the Nexus chamber. There he found that a new vat of stem cells had released into the chamber and was beginning to take the shape of a young man. Captain Hastelloy stepped in behind him and placed a hand on Valnor’s shoulder. “Looks like we both have some exciting times ahead of us.”

  An hour later Lieutenant Tonwen stepped out of the Nexus chamber a new man, but harboring an old grudge. “Those sons of bitches…”

  “The Freemasons?” Hastelloy asked.

  “Yes, the Freemasons. They must have found my address in Valnor’s apartment and came after me in the middle of the night. It appears they are purging anyone associated with him, looks like him, or even talks like him,” Tonwen complained.

  “Was there anything else in your apartment that links back to the crew?” the captain asked of Valnor with mild alarm in his voice.

  “No, nothing. The inner circle already considered Tonwen their top suspect. I wrote and addressed a letter to him in order to warn Tonwen, but the Masons got to me first.”

  “A day late and a pound short I am afraid,” Tonwen grumbled as he retrieved a set of clothes for himself from a side locker.

  Valnor’s explanation must have set the captain’s mind at ease. His superior’s posture relaxed noticeably as he looked at the science officer with a sympathetic smile and then shook his head. “I don’t know, Tonwen, setting up a fellow crewmember to get assassinated immediately after his own death seems like a pretty shrewd way to avoid his turn as Nexus chamber administrator.”

  “Yes,” Tonwen agreed while drawing out the single word, adding emphasis to his suspicion, “it certainly does. I think our young pilot is learning his lessons from you a little too well, Captain. Downright devious if you ask me.”

  “Wait now, you can’t possibly think…” Valnor attempted, but was cut short by the captain placing a playful hand on his shoulder.

  “Oh yes, he will bear closer watching from now on. But, rules are rules. The last man out of the Nexus remains here until the next crewman regenerates. Hate the game, not the player, Lieutenant.”

  “I think I will hate both for a while?” Tonwen teased.

  “You do that,” the captain countered before turning to Valnor. “In the meantime, the two of us have work to do. Tonwen, the Nexus chamber is yours.”

  “Oh goody,” Tonwen sighed to the backs of Captain Hastelloy and Ensign Valnor as they exited the chamber.

  Chapter 6: Teamwork

  When Valnor first arrived on the North American continent with Hastelloy, he had heard seemingly endless accounts from travelers describing the native Indians as half-naked savages wearing raw animal carcasses, feathers, and scalps of their murder victims. The consensus opinion of their intellect was that the natives barely managed primal grunts and rudimentary gestures to communicate with one another. That being the case, Valnor’s expectations were set exceptionally low as they ventured into the Indian territories that fell loosely under French influence around the St. Lawrence River Valley. French explorers may have planted their flags to claim the land for king and country, but possession was nine-tenths of the law in these parts. The natives possessed the land, and they were not giving it up easily.

  His first sighting of a native was inside Fort Duquesne, and it came about by complete accident. He was looking for the trade administrator’s office when he stopped a well-dressed gentleman wearing suit pants, coat and a top hat for directions. As the man turned around, his red skin and midnight black hair were unmistakable. He was a Native American in the flesh. Adding to the surprise, rather than gesturing or grunting, the helpful individual gave him clear directions in less than perfect, but still understandable, French.

  Now, nearly a year into traveling the territories and conversing with the various tribes, Valnor held the natives in very high regard. Their communities were clean, and organized. The natives bathed far more often than their European counterparts did, and they preferred modern, woolen fabrics to animal hides. In fact, the only individuals he saw decked out in the pelts of dead animals were French trappers who stunk to high heaven since their semi-annual bath did not adequately knock down the stench.

  Despite their aromatic shortcomings, French trappers and traders were very well represented at this tribal meeting. Most of them were married to native women, usually the daughters of tribal chiefs, in order to solidify a trading or land use agreement. The French opted for a cooperative approach with the natives, which stood in stark contrast to the British who seemed intent on pushing them entirely off their own lands: by the sword and musket if necessary. As a result, the natives were far more inclined to trade with and listen to Frenchmen, especially considering they were becoming more and more a part of the family every day.

  Valnor and Hastelloy had set up and led hundreds of sit-downs with various tribal leaders over the past year, but this one was different. This was THE meeting, all of their efforts culminated in this moment. The Shawnee, Mingo, Ottawa, Acadia, Delaware, and numerous other tribes were all persuaded to attend with Chief Tish-Co-Han of the Algonquin serving as host in his nation’s longhouse meeting hall.

  The grand structure was only twenty feet wide, but reached two-hundred and fifty feet in length. It had no fewer than three thousand bent saplings giving it a domed shape with long sections of bark woven in between the lines to form the weatherproof walls. Six braziers were spaced evenly down the middle with the resulting smoke exiting the building through holes formed in the ceiling high above. Had the walls been painted red, Valnor would have thought himself swallowed by a giant whale.

  While seated at one of several tables set up at the near end to accommodate the large gathering, Valnor took note of which native tribe was not present - the Iroquois, and with good reason. The Iroquois used their alliance with the British to secure powdered weapons and were busy expanding their borders at the expense of neighboring tribes, most of whom were at this meeting.

  “Chief Tish-Co-Han, I offer you a gift to show my respect and gratitude for your hosting this grand council,” Hastelloy announced in a passable use of the Algonquin language. It was the shared language among most tribes in the region and served Hastelloy and Valnor well to learn.

  With the room’s attention on him, Hastelloy got to his feet and produced a long, slender object concealed under a heavy cloth. He unwrapped the gift and presented Tish-Co-Han a musket rifle boasting a hand-carved stock depicting a wolf howling at a crescent moon. It was certainly not the first musket the chief had ever seen, but it may very well have been the first he ever held based on his wide-eyed reaction.

  Hastelloy placed the weapon in Tish-Co-Han’s expectant hands with a slight bow and let him play with the balance and weight before saying to everyone in the expansi
ve room, “There are many more guns from where this one came. They may not be quite as artful, but I assure you that they are just as useful at protecting what is ours from the British and Iroquois.”

  “By the word ‘ours’, you mean the French,” one of the other chiefs seated across from Hastelloy accused. “You think these lands are French and you expect us to send warriors to protect it as though we are subjects under your king’s rule?”

  “No! I mean we French are partners with you, the great people of these lands. Look around you; these French born men present are all married into your families. There is no more you and the French, there is only us,” Hastelloy insisted.

  “You are correct to question the motives though,” Hastelloy went on. “My king sits on the other side of the world from you. Honestly, his majesty does not particularly care about your people or your lands. All that he cares about is the trade we all share and the coin it earns him. He has great cause to protect that trade, and offers the weapons I bring to do so.”

  “I know these white faces around me,” the protesting chief went on. “I know them as friends, and several as family, but I do not know yours. Therefore, I do not trust you when you say words like ‘us’ and ‘our.’ You are not one of us.”

  Hastelloy moved his mouth to speak again, but Tish-Co-Han beat him to it. The chief rose to his feet and placed a friendly hand on Hastelloy’s shoulder. “When this confederation we are here to discuss is formed, he will be wed to my second eldest daughter. He will be one of us and fighting to protect his family and lands along with all of us when the British or Iroquois push too far. He will be a son of the Algonquin and I vouch for him. Does anyone question this assurance?”

  If anyone in the room had doubts, they were not willing to put voice to them. Silent nods of approval and numerous offers of congratulation abound, but in contrast to the jubilation, Valnor stood in stunned silence. This marriage arrangement was news to him, but a subtle wink from the captain assured him that all was in hand.

  “With the matter of trust settled between us, let’s move to the topic at hand,” Hastelloy said when the clamor in the room finally died down. “We have proposed a joint measure of shared protection, the Wabanaki Confederacy. If the British or Iroquois take action against one of our member nations, all Wabanaki Confederacy members will come to their assistance.”

  “We would provide warriors to fight them, what will the French provide? As you said, the king is far from here. Will he send soldiers? How long will it be for them to arrive if they are sent at all?” the now familiar voice of the protesting chief asked.

  Valnor knew this was a delicate question, and Hastelloy paused in giving an answer to consider his words carefully. If too many soldiers came, the natives might view it as an invasion of their lands from within. If not enough came, or came too late, then the French participation was of no value to them.

  “For now, his majesty provides weapons. Weapons that will make each of your warriors fight like ten,” Hastelloy explained. “He has also sent me and other military men who will train and educate your leaders in how best to use these weapons. That will make each of your warriors fight like one hundred.”

  The claim drew a collective groan and numerous scowls of offense at the boastful comment. The natives took great pride in the prowess of their warriors, but as the seconds passed, many of the tribal leaders also began nodding their head in agreement. They knew all too well what powdered weapons could do.

  “I mean no insult,” Hastelloy finally went on. “Your warriors are great fighters and brave men. We can make them even better with the right tools in their capable hands. That, I can promise you, but what I cannot guarantee are French soldiers. It may be hundreds, or it may be thousands, but they will be here to solidify and support, not occupy. That I can also guarantee.”

  After that assurance, Captain Hastelloy fell silent. The concept of a mutual protection pact in the face of British and Iroquois territorial aggression sold itself. Since neither of them were voting members of any participating tribal nations, Hastelloy and Valnor exited the longhouse to await word on the proposal’s acceptance or rejection.

  “I believe congratulations are in order,” Valnor told his captain to pass the time.

  Hastelloy shook his head. “It’s a little premature for that I think. Some of those tribes have bad histories between them, to say nothing of their mistrust of the French. Convincing them to set that all aside to form an alliance is far from guaranteed, even if it is the right thing for them.”

  “I think your wider view of this diplomatic house we’re busy constructing is blocking you from noticing an individual nail holding it all together. You’re getting married,” Valnor teased. “I believe the proper thing to say to that is…congratulations.”

  Hastelloy affixed Valnor with a glare that said ‘don’t start with me,’ but Valnor was not about to let such an easy target pass his sights. “Should I go into the woods and forage up a gift now or later? What did the chief include in her dowry anyway? I don’t want to double up, that would be quite embarrassing.”

  “It is I who provided the dowry by delivering a thousand cases of muskets, powder, and lead balls to the Confederation thanks to the pull Tomal has in the French military these days,” Hastelloy sighed with an air of false regret in his voice. “They get a modernized army and I get the financial obligation of caring for a young woman I never met. In hindsight, perhaps I could have asked the chief for one or two domestic niceties to even the deal out a bit.”

  “Chief Tish-Co-Han drives a hard bargain,” Valnor observed.

  “He does indeed,” Hastelloy agreed before tilting his head to visibly show he was changing the subject. “You did really well in reading the political opportunity over here while we were still back in Egypt. If these tribes do band together and manage a few key victories over the British, other tribal nations will join them. This confederation idea of yours has real potential to pick up momentum and evolve into a new and prominent world power if we manage things right.”

  “I don’t see a lot of things that can stop, it to be honest,” Valnor added, eager to pile praise onto the scheme he hatched. “The British won’t see this alliance coming. By the time they do find out they’ll be outnumbered five to one and under siege before their panicked colonies can even write a dispatch to London begging for help.”

  “You’re assuming the British, or more importantly, the Freemasons will not react to this plan of yours. They’ve displayed more knowledge than we gave them credit for in the past. They may well know more than you think they do now,” Hastelloy cautioned. “Assuming they knew of your plan, what could they do to prevent it?”

  Valnor mulled the question over in his head for a few moments before concluding, “They could start sending more people over to the colonies, lots of them: soldiers, farmers, criminals, or whoever. Just so long as they could raise a gun to defend themselves and their land if needed.”

  “Good, now take it a step further, how can you prevent their possible counter play?”

  Oh for the love of a god I don’t even believe in, does the backup planning have no end? Valnor screamed in his own head before vocalizing his calm and reasoned reply. “We need to get one of us imbedded inside England again to see if their settlement activity is increasing. If it is, we can either find a way to stop it, or provoke this pending war between the natives and France against England before they can ship many people across the Atlantic to fight us.”

  “Excellent, when do you leave?” Hastelloy asked.

  “Me?” Valnor asked with an uneasy laugh behind his words. “We are just getting things together over here. You’ll need my help training these natives, assuming this council goes as planned.”

  “I’ll find a way to manage here, getting a feel for the pulse of British and Freemason activity is a more pressing matter,” Hastelloy ordered moments before the deerskin flap covering the door into the longhouse flipped open and men began filing out.

 
; The council deliberations had been short, that was a good sign. Better still, every one of them carried a smile across their face and seemed to take deliberate care in acknowledging the captain’s presence with a polite bow. The last to leave the building was Tish-Co-Han himself.

  “The Wabanaki Confederation is born,” the chief shouted with delight and his arms raised high with his new musket held between his hands. “This is a new and great day for our peoples!”

  The entire village erupted in jubilation at the announcement. Singing, dancing, shouting, embracing, and all manner of chaos followed and made Valnor both excited and uneasy. The captain planted a seed of concern in his head about the Freemasons. With his mind now set on the defensive, he instinctively started assessing potential threats. They were vulnerable here. All these tribal leaders in one place with this much noise and activity all around them was a risk.

  A sudden movement to Valnor’s right made him look that way in time to see a celebrating warrior toss a shield into the air. A commotion to his left brought Valnor’s head around to see a father swinging a toddler around by her arms to the unbridled glee of the child. Behind Valor, he heard someone scream at the top of their lungs that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. The ear-piercing pitch was more like a war cry than celebration.

  Valnor turned around in time to see a native charging out of the throngs around them with a tomahawk hatchet in hand. He was too far away to do anything other than watch as the attacker dashed straight for the leadership group with his weapon held high. Captain Hastelloy stepped between the assault and Tish-Co-Han in time, but was late to raise his arms to offer a proper defense. The powerful strike broke through his left wrist as if it was not even there, and imbedded the axe blade deep into his chest.