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Twenty days passed quickly.
They were not peaceful, as tensions between France and Great Britain had quickly escalated, casting the shadow of a new conflict between the two powers.
But both titans knew they lacked the strength and means for open war. Not yet.
So, on the ground, colonial administrators and officers had tried to de-escalate the situation.
In Albany, however, the tone had sharpened. Face had to be saved.
They loudly demanded the return of the colonists while the news spread throughout the province.Newspapers told how bloodthirsty Iroquois had massacred poor settlers and taken their wives and children captive.
They described inhumane treatment, beatings, humiliation, pagan rituals, and even rape.
The French, for their part, were portrayed as silent accomplices, even encouraging such barbaric practices.
These accounts, greatly exaggerated, were already on their way to London and would further fuel the image of a savage, untamable continent—and of a dishonorable kingdom of France.
François, for his part, returned safely to Fort Bourbon, having avoided British territory by passing through Akwiratheka's village.
He was welcomed as a hero. His story quickly spread throughout the fort, then reached Québec.
But neither Colonel de Faudoas nor Governor Vaudreuil shared the soldiers' enthusiasm.
They knew the stakes now went far beyond the fate of a few British colonists.
France's diplomatic relations with the Iroquois were on the line.
On March 23rd, 1769, François arrived in Québec, accompanying an Iroquois delegation composed mainly of Mohawks.
A few representatives of other nations of the Confederacy were present as well, concerned that the Mohawks might take decisions that would affect the rest of them.
There were about ten of them, dressed in traditional attire.
François wore his fine white-and-blue uniform beneath a blue-grey greatcoat.
His gold-trimmed tricorne was firmly fastened on his head, and his officer's sword lightly tapped against his thigh with the calm movements of Carmène.
All were quickly led to the old governor's study.
The Marquis de Vaudreuil welcomed them at the entrance to the spacious room.
He had shrunk somewhat with age. His large powdered wig, cascading down his tired shoulders like a waterfall, seemed almost too heavy for a man of his stature.
"Welcome," he said, ushering in all those stern-faced men. "Québec receives you in peace. I hope your journey was not too difficult."
Outside, the rain poured violently over the city. A true deluge.
Fortunately, the van Schaick road, well maintained, allowed for easy travel between Montréal and Québec.
It never turned to mud, even under heavy rain, greatly facilitating trade in the region.
The former mayor of Albany had been handsomely rewarded for that.
New France valued talent, and this man had plenty. In just a few years, his influence—and fortune—had grown thanks to his ventures in the St. Lawrence Valley.
He had recently embarked on a new endeavor: the creation of an official rugby team in Québec and the organization of tournaments with prizes.
"The spirits are angry," said one of the weathered Royaner, his dark eyes fixed on the governor. "They show it with this rain. We expect sincere words and actions worthy of the offenses committed."
The Marquis de Vaudreuil gave a cautious smile, then invited his guests to gather near the fire.
The furniture had been rearranged and pelts laid out on the floor.
The Iroquois settled in silence, forming a kind of circle in front of the hearth.
François remained standing, slightly apart, near the tall windows lashed by wind and heavy raindrops.
They made so much noise one could almost mistake it for hail.
In the distance, he thought he could hear thunder rumbling.
The clouds, gray and nearly black, made it feel as though night was falling. Several candles had been lit.
Tension quickly settled over the group. The Iroquois naturally held the upper hand in the negotiations, as they were the aggrieved party.
Silence was broken by a second Royaner from the Bear Clan, known for his eloquence.
His shoulders were wrapped in a thick fur cape embroidered with refined geometric patterns, and his face was calm, almost expressionless.
Though long silver hair streaked his temples, his eyes were still full of life.
"Your soldiers entered our territory without our consent. They ignored our laws and deeply insulted our people by acting without involving us. If we agreed to release them, it was due to the circumstances—and the identity of their leader. But we expect proper compensation."
"I understand and respect your decision," the marquis replied simply, now accustomed to dealing with this difficult-to-please people. "I've been informed of the entire affair. Your anger is justified."
He then exchanged a brief look with François, who remained focused, though not directly included in the discussion.
"We appreciated your gesture," one of the chiefs added politely.
"And we noted your support for Albany," said another, in the same measured tone.
"It is only natural. France is a friend to the Haudenosaunee… and she acknowledges her share of responsibility.
In the name of His Majesty, I, Pierre de Rigaud, Marquis de Vaudreuil, Governor General of New France, am ready to listen to you… and to compensate you for the wrong that was done."
The Confederacy's representatives slowly nodded. They exchanged satisfied glances.
"Then tell me," the governor continued in an encouraging tone, "what do you want?"
"The first thing we want is a written commitment. We want your soldiers never to cross our borders again without our permission."
"Of course," Vaudreuil said with a slight bow. "It shall be done. What else do you ask for?"
François felt a slight tightening in his chest. He knew this was where things might stall. He hoped his mistake would not cost France too dearly.
"We want fifty good-quality muskets, with flints and the tools to maintain them. We want two hundred lead balls and two barrels of black powder. Thirty thick wool blankets—French or English, whichever you have. A chest of new axes and knives. Salt. Tobacco. Glass beads, thread, needles, manufactured goods, and three crates of tea."
Tekanatoke fell silent for a moment and stared at Governor Vaudreuil, his eyes gleaming with a predatory glint that made his companions stiffen as well.
"To that, we add five horses, to compensate the families of those who died in the clash with the English settlers, and ten more for those you removed from our justice by making them subjects of the King of France."
François listened with growing concern as the list of demands lengthened, then watched the governor's reaction. Yet Vaudreuil showed nothing of his thoughts.
Or perhaps, from where François sat, he simply couldn't read them.
There was a moment of stillness. The air grew heavy, harder to breathe, as if the oxygen had suddenly vanished.
The old man remained silent for a long while. He seemed to be calculating.
The Iroquois, in turn, began to feel doubt rising within them.
Had they asked for too much?
The Council had judged—based on the statements of that French major—that the governor would yield to their demands to avoid losing their friendship. They needed them.
After a moment, the man moved. A simple hand gesture, subtle, directed at his secretary—so discreet that François could have forgotten he was there. The secretary nodded and took notes, without saying a word.
Finally, the governor spoke again, his voice calm, almost gentle:
"You have come with respect," he said slowly, placing his hands, marked with small brown spots, on his knees, which were beginning to ache. "And so you shall be heard with respect. I promise these things will be given to you. As soon as we are done here, I will give the orders for the wagons to be prepared. It will take a few days."
He paused briefly, then added, with a touch of humility:
"We know this does not entirely erase the offense. But we hope it will be clear to the Confederacy that we place great importance on our relationship, on our alliance, and that we sincerely wish it to endure. The muskets will be of the best quality—the same model carried by our soldiers. As for the horses, I will make sure they are young, strong, and well trained."
Tekanatoke, the spokesman for the group, like the other representatives, was so surprised he didn't respond immediately. They exchanged startled, almost disoriented glances.
Coming to Quebec, they had expected harsh negotiations and difficult compromises.
The English would have done everything to divide the requested quantities and would certainly not have offered their best weapons. They would have handed over outdated models, no longer suitable for their army's needs.
This attitude was so unlike what they were used to that they briefly wondered if a mistake had been made—or if the French had misunderstood what was expected. But that was not the case.
Tekanatoke inclined his head slightly.
"Very well… We are satisfied."
In a strange silence, quite different from the one before, a ceremonial pipe was lit. It passed from hand to hand, smoked with dignity, as though to seal the agreement under the watchful eyes of the spirits.
Then the delegation rose and left the room.
Their shoulders were straight, their gazes steady but not arrogant. They departed as they had come.
Yet despite their expressionless faces, a deep satisfaction was visible in their bearing.
The French attitude had been deeply appreciated.
And it only made the English appear all the more unworthy of their friendship.
When the door closed behind the last Mohawk, the Marquis de Vaudreuil let out a long, deep sigh. He turned to François, who had remained silent throughout the meeting.
François lowered his eyes, feeling the tension in the room now resting solely on his shoulders.
In the chamber, the veil of smoke hanging beneath the ceiling, crossed by thick beams adorned like the pages of an illuminated Bible, looked like an unmoving shroud.
The fire crackled in the hearth, and the rain intensified. It beat against the tall windows in waves.
François didn't dare move and kept his hands clasped behind his back, facing a wall covered in immense, detailed paintings of great battles from this century and the last.
Vaudreuil broke the oppressive silence—and with it, the unbearable atmosphere. His voice was low but firm.
"Well… that's settled. It went rather well."
His tone was meant to be light, but the governor's eyes remained serious.
He moved toward an imposing armchair that looked very comfortable and turned it to face François. He sank into it and stretched out his aching legs.
"Your initiatives, my dear François, almost cost us dearly. If we had lost the friendship of the Iroquois today…"
"I-I'm sorry."
"You didn't think things through. Even if you had your colonel's approval—Fodoas—you should have known that acting on their territory without waiting for their consent would be very poorly received. We need their friendship now more than ever. We've been at peace with the English for… seven years now. Do you think it will last forever?"
François remained silent and didn't dare look the governor in the eye. The latter ran a tired hand over his face.
"They are still very much in debt, but it's only a matter of time before they seek revenge for the last war. They will almost certainly come back to reclaim the territories they lost on this continent. And even though we've made considerable investments—building forts, maintaining regiments—it may not be enough. They are still powerful."
His gaze grew more intense.
"If the Iroquois return to the British side, we could lose everything."
He paused, then looked more closely at the young major's features—a child, in his eyes, though François was now over thirty.
"Fortunately, you handled yourself well during the council."
He picked up a report from his desk and waved it slightly in the air.
"Your words and your demeanor prevented the worst. This compensation—though considerable—is nothing compared to the loss of their friendship. Your honesty even seems to have had a positive effect on our relations. The British attitude helps us as well. Their way of handling things is a blessing for New France. Those fools... Not only did they demand the return of their settlers, but they also refused to admit their wrongdoing. Let alone offer compensation to the Iroquois. They won't forget that anytime soon."
François nodded slowly, still tense. Vaudreuil raised an eyebrow.
"You're not an ordinary soldier, François. You have one foot in both worlds. What you represent... your union with Onatah, your sons... it's precious. You must always remember that your actions carry weight. That's why I did you the honor of becoming godfather to your children. By the way, how are they?"
"They're well, sir. Growing fast."
"Good. You've done much for peace. And this time, despite your mistakes, you've given us a great opportunity. That's why I'll request that you not be reprimanded. The leave you requested to return temporarily to France will remain in effect."
François blinked rapidly, relieved—he had indeed feared the cancellation of his leave.
"Thank you, sir! Um, what do you mean by opportunity?"
Vaudreuil stood up slowly and walked toward François, toward the windows overlooking the batteries that protected the river, as grey as the sky.
"Isn't it obvious? The English made a mistake, and the Iroquois came to us with high expectations. We're going to exceed them. We'll give them livestock, tools, extra weapons, fine fabrics, prestige items, more tea and tobacco. They'll leave with a clear sense that here, they are respected and treated as true friends. That France is reliable and generous."
"And the English will seem more arrogant, greedier, more distant," added François quietly.
"Exactly. When their fellow tribesmen see all that they're bringing back, they'll understand and want the same. In the coming weeks, trade will increase significantly. They'll likely ask to expand trade routes."
"I understand."
Vaudreuil's face, however, grew more serious.
"But let that not make you forget this: the Iroquois place great value on respect for their borders and keeping one's word. A new incident could ruin everything. Your rank, your merits, your ties to the Mohawks or even to me won't save you from His Majesty's wrath. We could all suffer from it."
François nodded solemnly.
"I won't forget, sir."
"Good. Then you may go. However, I would like you to be present when the representatives of the Confederacy see the convoy we are preparing for them. I would also like you to accompany them to Canajoharie."
"I'm at your service."
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The convoy was presented at dawn on the third day, in the courtyard of the Quebec fort, the cobblestones still damp from the rains of the previous days. The pale grey sky seemed to waver between clearing up and breaking into a downpour.
The members of the delegation, surrounded by officers, approached slowly, without a word, their steps measured, their gazes sharp. François watched their reactions closely.
From his point of view, they seemed very surprised. Their faces weren't expressive, but their eyes said a great deal.
They moved from cart to cart, inspecting the goods they were being given.
Bales of colorful cloth from Lyon and Nantes, wine from Bordeaux, sturdy clothing from Brittany, silk and tea from China, tobacco from Virginia, sugar and rum from the West Indies, brand new muskets carefully oiled, agricultural tools, knives and axes, blankets, finely crafted prestige items, barrels of salt, and a good supply of black powder.
In addition to the horses they had demanded, there were also two cows and a young bull, promised for breeding.
A tall, lean man from the Wolf Clan stepped toward a long case containing a beautiful telescope.
He turned toward François but didn't speak. His silence carried more weight than a lengthy speech.
The man seemed to say: "You have understood what respect means."
The convoy departed the fort shortly after, with no cries of joy or victory songs, accompanied by a light escort. It passed through Trois-Rivières, followed the Richelieu River, skirted Lake Champlain, then entered the narrow forest paths.
The road quickly became difficult, but the convoy pressed on until it reached the Hudson River. From there, it continued through Mohawk territory, passing through the village of Akwiratheka.
It stopped only for the night and set off again at first light the next morning.
The convoy passed through other villages and finally, after a journey of just over a month, reached Canajoharie. Escorted by curious villagers, it came to a halt in front of a longhouse—the very one where François had been heard.
The carts were quickly unloaded and, without a word addressed to him, people began dividing up the goods.
Only once everything had been carried off did someone approach François to exchange a few words. The Mohawks acknowledged France's goodwill. For this time, the offense was forgotten.
Standing apart, Molly Brant watched the entire scene and clenched her fists until they bled.
The French didn't linger in Canajoharie once their mission was complete and turned back.
As Governor Vaudreuil had predicted, a few weeks later, a new delegation appeared in Quebec—this time, not to complain or seek justice, but to trade.