Red Prophet: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume II by Orson Scott Card Page B
Authors: Orson Scott Card
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enough to have the redbird learn his song or the land fill up his heart.
Never mind, never mind, never mind.
The land has chosen me to be its voice, and so I must begin to speak. I will no longer stay here, trying to shame the wretched drunks who have already been killed by their thirst for the White man’s poison. I will give no more warnings to White liars. I will go to the Reds who are still alive, still men, and gather them together. As one great people we will drive the White man back across the sea.
3
De Maurepas
Frederic, the young Comte de Maurepas, and Gilbert, the aging Marquis de La Fayette, stood together at the railing of the canal barge, looking out across Lake Irrakwa. The sail of the
Marie-Philippe
was plainly visible now; they had been watching for hours as it came closer across this least and lowest of the Great Lakes.
Frederic could not remember when he had last been so humiliated on behalf of his nation. Perhaps the time when Cardinal What’s-his-name had tried to bribe Queen Marie-Antoinette. Oh but of course Frederic had only been a boy, then, a mere twenty-five years old, callow and young, without experience of the world. He had thought that no greater humiliation could come to France than to have it known that a cardinal would actually believe that the Queen could be bribed with a diamond necklace. Or bribed at all, for that matter. Now, of course, he understood that the real humiliation was that a French cardinal would be so stupid as to suppose that bribing the Queen was worth doing; the most she could do was influence the King, and since old King Louis never influenced anybody, there you were.
Personal humiliation was painful. Humiliation of one’s family was much worse. Humiliation of one’s social standing was agony to bear. But humiliation of one’s nation was the most excruciating of human miseries.
Now here he stood on a miserable canal barge, an
American
canal barge, tied at the verge of an
American
canal, waiting to greet a French general. Why wasn’t it a French canal? Why hadn’t the French been the first to engineer those clever locks and build a canal around the Canadian side of the falls?
“Don’t fume, my dear Frederic,” murmured La Fayette.
“I’m not fuming, my dear Gilbert.”
“Snorting, then. You keep snorting.”
“Sniffing. I have a cold.” Canada certainly was a repository for the dregs of French society, Frederic thought for the thousandth time. Even the nobility that ended up here was embarrassing. This Marquis de La Fayette, a member of the—no, a
founder
of the Club of the Feuillants, which was almost the same as saying he was a declared traitor to King Charles. Democratic twaddle. Might as well be a Jacobin like that terrorist Robespierre. Of course they exiled La Fayette to Canada, where he could do little harm. Little harm, that is, except to humiliate France in this unseemly manner—
“Our new general has brought several staff officers with him,” said La Fayette, “and all their luggage. It makes no sense to disembark and make the miserable portage in wagons and carriages, when it can all be carried by water. It will give us a chance to become acquainted.”
Since La Fayette, in his normal crude way (disgrace to the aristocracy!), insisted on being blunt about the matter at hand, Frederic would have to stoop to his level and speak just as plainly. “A French general should not have to travel on foreign soil to reach his posting!”
“But my dear Frederic, he’ll never set foot on American soil, now, will he! Just boat to boat, on water all the way.”
La Fayette’s simper was maddening. To make light of this smudge on the honor of France. Why, oh, why couldn’t Frederic’s father have remained in favor with the king just a little longer, so Frederic could have stayed in France long enough to win promotion to some elegant posting, like Lord of the Italian March or something—did they have such a posting?—anyway, somewhere with
Never mind, never mind, never mind.
The land has chosen me to be its voice, and so I must begin to speak. I will no longer stay here, trying to shame the wretched drunks who have already been killed by their thirst for the White man’s poison. I will give no more warnings to White liars. I will go to the Reds who are still alive, still men, and gather them together. As one great people we will drive the White man back across the sea.
3
De Maurepas
Frederic, the young Comte de Maurepas, and Gilbert, the aging Marquis de La Fayette, stood together at the railing of the canal barge, looking out across Lake Irrakwa. The sail of the
Marie-Philippe
was plainly visible now; they had been watching for hours as it came closer across this least and lowest of the Great Lakes.
Frederic could not remember when he had last been so humiliated on behalf of his nation. Perhaps the time when Cardinal What’s-his-name had tried to bribe Queen Marie-Antoinette. Oh but of course Frederic had only been a boy, then, a mere twenty-five years old, callow and young, without experience of the world. He had thought that no greater humiliation could come to France than to have it known that a cardinal would actually believe that the Queen could be bribed with a diamond necklace. Or bribed at all, for that matter. Now, of course, he understood that the real humiliation was that a French cardinal would be so stupid as to suppose that bribing the Queen was worth doing; the most she could do was influence the King, and since old King Louis never influenced anybody, there you were.
Personal humiliation was painful. Humiliation of one’s family was much worse. Humiliation of one’s social standing was agony to bear. But humiliation of one’s nation was the most excruciating of human miseries.
Now here he stood on a miserable canal barge, an
American
canal barge, tied at the verge of an
American
canal, waiting to greet a French general. Why wasn’t it a French canal? Why hadn’t the French been the first to engineer those clever locks and build a canal around the Canadian side of the falls?
“Don’t fume, my dear Frederic,” murmured La Fayette.
“I’m not fuming, my dear Gilbert.”
“Snorting, then. You keep snorting.”
“Sniffing. I have a cold.” Canada certainly was a repository for the dregs of French society, Frederic thought for the thousandth time. Even the nobility that ended up here was embarrassing. This Marquis de La Fayette, a member of the—no, a
founder
of the Club of the Feuillants, which was almost the same as saying he was a declared traitor to King Charles. Democratic twaddle. Might as well be a Jacobin like that terrorist Robespierre. Of course they exiled La Fayette to Canada, where he could do little harm. Little harm, that is, except to humiliate France in this unseemly manner—
“Our new general has brought several staff officers with him,” said La Fayette, “and all their luggage. It makes no sense to disembark and make the miserable portage in wagons and carriages, when it can all be carried by water. It will give us a chance to become acquainted.”
Since La Fayette, in his normal crude way (disgrace to the aristocracy!), insisted on being blunt about the matter at hand, Frederic would have to stoop to his level and speak just as plainly. “A French general should not have to travel on foreign soil to reach his posting!”
“But my dear Frederic, he’ll never set foot on American soil, now, will he! Just boat to boat, on water all the way.”
La Fayette’s simper was maddening. To make light of this smudge on the honor of France. Why, oh, why couldn’t Frederic’s father have remained in favor with the king just a little longer, so Frederic could have stayed in France long enough to win promotion to some elegant posting, like Lord of the Italian March or something—did they have such a posting?—anyway, somewhere with
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