Shadowbrook Part 27

"I think Pere Antoine may be in league with Lantak. And that together they are up to no good." The cabin was not overly warm, but the Jesuit was soaked with sweat. "I saw Lantak and his renegade once, with their hair cut into scalp locks and their faces painted for war. I was told they went south to attack-I do not know who or where-because the Franciscan paid them."

"Lantak kills for pleasure. If he gets money as well he considers himself twice lucky. You think this Franciscan priest is some kind of spy?"

"I do not know." Philippe leaned forward, bent beneath the weight of his earnestness. "It makes no sense. I don't know what to think."

"No sense at all," Cormac agreed. "Let us leave it for the moment. Tell me again about the French troops."

An hour later Philippe Faucon had left the farm, and Cormac was preparing to do the same. "Where will you go?" Marni demanded. "Are you going to look for that renegade Huron?"

"Not immediately."

"What are you doing there at the fireplace?"

"I'm taking something I put here." He pried a stone loose and reclaimed the medicine bag of Suckauhock. "As for Lantak ... the master is more important than the dog. The Jesuit said Lantak was controlled by the Franciscan. Pere Antoine. I go first to Quebec."

"Bien! C'est parfait! Take me with you. I won't be any trouble. I know my way about the city. I can find a place to stay. There's a baker who will give me work and-"

"I can't take you with me. You'll slow me down too much. Besides, what about Mumu and Tutu? What about the pig and the chickens and-"

"You have been here all this time and you understand nothing."

Her normally pale skin was flushed dark red, and her voice shook. The obvious pa.s.sion in her made the sap rise in him. It was all Corm could do not to grab her and have her right now on the floor in front of the fire. One last time before he left.

"I hate this place. It is my prison." Her breath came hard, making her chest rise and fall beneath the homespun frock and pinafore. "I should never have come back here. I do not care if the d.y.k.es break apart and this farm is washed out to sea."

He was rock hard but it was not simply l.u.s.t. A great deal had already pa.s.sed between them, but standing here with her, knowing he had no choice but to leave her, Cormac understood that he didn't just want to possess her to put out the fire between his legs, he wanted her to be his for always. He slipped the medicine bag around his neck and hid the pouch beneath his shirt. Then he went to Marni and put his hands on her shoulders. "I have to go. But I will come back. I give you my word."

His touch burned her skin. Through the fabric of her clothes, through all the layers that hid who she truly was, she could feel Cormac Shea's fingers on her skin.

Marni had exposed herself to him in ways she had done with no one else, not even sweet Jean the baker who was to have been her husband and who smelled always of flour and yeast. She reached up and traced his scar with a single finger. He did not pull away. "Je t'aime," she said. "Je t'aime, Cormac Shea."

"Je t'aime, Marni Benoit." He had not said those words before. Not to her, not to any woman. "Je t'aime, but now I must go."

"Very well. That I understand. Only I do not understand why you will not take me with you."

"Because I must travel very fast, and to do that I must travel alone."

"But why? If the black robe is correct and there are truly six thousand French troops on their way to Quebec, and G.o.d knows how many English ships waiting to hunt them down, what can you do about it? Why should a war between the French and the English be a reason to separate us?"

"Because I am wabnum, the white wolf. It is my totem."

"And the white wolf approached the bear that was near the little birds." She had sat in this room with the Jesuit and Cormac and listened to her metis lover speak of his dream as if it were a thing as real as the table or the stools or the jug of spruce beer. As real and as important as she was. "You are sure?"

"I am very sure."

"Alors." She pulled away from him. "And I can't keep you here or go with you?"

"Not this time. But I will return, Marni Benoit. I will come back for you. You can rely on that."

Chapter Sixteen.

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 2, 1755.

THE OHIO COUNTRY.

TWENTY-TWO HUNDRED men, a hundred and fifty wagons, and five hundred packhorses carrying siege guns-monstrously heavy eight-inch howitzers and twelve-pound cannon-pushed their way through thickly wooded wilderness, over swampy mora.s.ses, and across rock-strewn mountains, cutting their own road as they went.

It was insanity.

"You have to tell him," Quent said. "He trusts you. You know it can't be done, not and come out the other end with men who are ready to fight."

"I've tried," Washington said. "He won't listen. The plan was made while he was still in London. And General Braddock takes his own counsel as best."

Washington stared straight ahead, his face grim. So you've learned something since the last time, Quent thought. Put that together with that insane courage of yours, you could be a formidable soldier one day. "Braddock's going to fail. If there was some way to make him understand that, maybe-"

"He's like someone who thinks they've spoken to the Almighty. Nothing can change his mind or convince him there's another way." Washington hesitated. "The General," he said at last, "has conceived a four-p.r.o.nged attack. And this is only one part of it."

They were walking together behind a group of provincials whose job was to roll out of the way the trees the axe wielders felled. They did the work in a constant had of cursing, sweating and groaning with the effort and the heat.

Quent drew Washington deep enough into the forest to m.u.f.fle the sounds of Braddocks army spending its lifeblood hacking a road through the woods. "Exactly what are you trying to tell me?"

"When Braddock was back in Alexandria, he met with the governors: Dinwiddie of Virginia and Shirley of Ma.s.sachusetts, and De Lancey of New York. But of course they have their various legislatures to contend with and-"

"Yes, very well. I don't want a lesson in politics. A four-p.r.o.nged attack, you said. If this is one, what are the others?"

"Shirley of Ma.s.sachusetts is to take two regiments and seize Fort Niagara. William Johnson is to lead his Mohawks and some colonials to Lake Champlain where they're to take Fort St. Frederic at Crown Point."

Quent's heart slammed in his chest By water Fort St. Frederic was a three-day journey from Shadowbrook, a straight run from Lake Champlain into Bright Fish Water. "He is mad. There are settlements near both those objectives. Farms and homes and towns. It's-" He broke off. "Sweet Jesus Christ. Duquesne, Frederic, and Niagara. That's three. And the fourth?"

There was a hint of bitterness in Washington's voice. "The fourth a.s.sault's to be made on the two French forts that guard the Chignecto Isthmus up in Nova Scotia. Beausejour and Gaspareau. And there's something else. Apparently the French are sending reinforcements to Quebec and London has dispatched a fleet to intercept them."

"They are all mad," Quent said again. "Look at what's happening right here. The column is so strung out it-"

"Gentleman, I take it you are both well? Not stopping here because of any illness, are you? If I can be of a.s.sistance ..."

The English doctor appeared, the one Braddock kept in tow to look after the wh.o.r.es and hopefully keep his men from being laid low by the various diseases that accompanied f.u.c.king. "We're fine, Dr. Walton," Washington replied. "Thank you for your concern, but it's not warranted."

"d.a.m.ned hot though, isn't it?" Xavier Walton mopped his face with a red bandanna that had been given him some months back by the first woman he'd treated. He'd painted her privates with a tincture of mercury and bled her from the thigh-all the while saying Paters in his head, reminding himself as well as the Lord that he was vowed to chast.i.ty, and trying to avert his eyes while still doing his duty. The bandanna was the brightest thing he'd ever owned. These days he wore a black jacket and black breeches. Had he been revealed as a Catholic priest, a Jesuit, no doubt Braddock would hang him as the spy he was. The thought was seductive.

I pray You will grant me martyrdom, Lord. But I will not take it unless you send it. Meanwhile I will do everything I can to be obedient to the command of my superior. "Hotter than any place in England, that's for sure," Xavier murmured.

"Hotter than h.e.l.l," Quent said. "And it will get hotter. That's the one thing you can rely on, Doctor. Here in the Ohio Country it always gets hotter."

A four-p.r.o.nged attack. Three of them to take place in heavily settled locations. d.a.m.n you to everlasting h.e.l.l, Braddock. You're not just an arrogant b.a.s.t.a.r.d, you're stark raving mad.

A week later Braddock's army had gone no more than forty leagues. A brave, fully outfitted and painted for war, could run almost that far through the forest two days. "We are to be divided," Washington told Quent. He did not add that it had been his idea. "A third of the force is to stay behind with the heavy baggage. The rest will be what the General calls a flying column, and push on ahead."

"The women should stay behind as well."

"Some will," Washington agreed. "The officer's wives and a few of the older ones who might not keep up. The youngest and strongest laundresses are to be part of the advance column."

"No," Quent said. "They are in greater peril."

"The French troops won't attack women."

"I'm not thinking about the French."

"The Indians?" Washington asked.

Quent nodded. "Any that look as if they won't survive a forced march back to the braves' home villages will be killed, the others captured."

Washington looked at him curiously. "I thought you approved of the Indian way of life?"

"I do. But I'm not a captured white woman who never chose it."

The colonel nodded. "Very well, I'll tell the General what you've said. But I don't know that he'll agree. He doesn't think an army can function without its laundresses."

Nor, in Braddock's opinion, could it move through the forest in a way that took any notice of the nature of the terrain. The flying column was ordered to maintain army discipline. The officers were on horseback, the troops, scarlet-coated regulars and blue-uniformed Virginians alike, went on foot, marching in columns of four. Behind them came the light cavalry and the horse-drawn artillery. Thirty women and their a.s.sorted baggage brought up the rear. Neat. Precise. As if they moved through the settled farmlands of Europe, not the American wilderness.

"He is insane, this war sachem." Scarouady and seven of his Iroquois braves had decided to rejoin the campaign. They went ahead with Quent and Croghan and a few other scouts. "They are asking to be slaughtered. You know this is true, Uko Nyakwai."

Quent did know it, but he had yet to convince General Braddock.

In Canada, nearly four hundred leagues to the north, Beausejour sat on the top of a hill facing the Missaquash marsh. It was a heavily garrisoned five-sided fort, with earthen ramparts ten feet high and emplacements for two dozen cannon, even a mortar. It should have been impregnable.

Except that on Sunday, the thirteenth of June, after the English forces had been more or less besieging the fort for almost two weeks, the cook realized he had waited too long to prepare the chickens that had been smuggled in five days before from a habitant's farm. The poultry smelled, but there was no other meat for the commandant's mess. The cook prepared a strong sauce of vinegar and pounded almonds and a king's ransom in crushed black pepper, and masked the taste of the bad chicken so well that he received a number of compliments on the quality of the dish. Even the commander, Duchambon de Vergor, went out of his way to say how much he had enjoyed the meal.

At dawn on Monday, when an English sh.e.l.l fell on the latrine reserved for the use of the officers, six of them were straddling the holes and were immediately killed. Vergor, his own gut writhing with cramps caused by the bad chicken, considered his position. He had been put in command by the man in charge of procurement for all Canada, Intendant Bigot. Vergor knew a great deal about siphoning off supplies so they could be sold to enrich himself and his patron, but very little about war. Without his officers Vergor was helpless. He ordered a white flag to be raised and surrendered Beausejour, and for all intents and purposes the whole of French-controlled l'Acadie. One of General Braddock's p.r.o.ngs had been driven home.

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 23, 1755.

QUeBEC UPPER TOWN.

The little nun lifted her skirts as she climbed the steep hill. Cormac could see that she wore sandals and no hose. It was warm enough now, even in Quebec, the river was free of ice and the air smelled of summer. He had been watching the nun since she left her monastery in the Lower Town, but he had yet to catch sight of her from the front. He stayed well back, shadowing the woman not because he was interested in her, but because he was following the Franciscan priest, Pere Antoine, who was apparently following the nun.

If the Franciscan was a spy, as the Jesuit had suggested, he wasn't very good at it. The nun apparently hadn't spotted him, but anyone else would do so easily. Most Cmokmanuk were clumsy at such tasks. Not Quent, but he wasn't like most Cmokmanuk. The rest-The nun stopped halfway up the hill.

Nicole paused at the heavy iron gates in front of the chateau of His Excellency, the Bishop of New France. There was a rope hanging from a bell suspended from one of the gateposts. She could barely see it through the folds of the white veil pulled forward to cover her face. It was not necessary inside the cloister, only now when she had been sent into the street. "You must not be seen unveiled," Mere Marie Rose had said. "Never. Do you understand, Soeur Stephane?"

"Oui, ma Mere. I understand."

"I would not do this if it were not that the bishop himself requested it. His Excellency makes a special novena to Our Lady of Victory, for the Ohio Country, and he has decided that the altar breads he consecrates with his own hands, at his private Ma.s.s, are to be made only by the Poor Clares." The abbess could not keep the pride from her voice. "It is a great honor, Soeur Stephane. And only you can go. I have spoken with Pere Antoine. It is not a violation of the Holy Rule since you have not yet made your vows."

Normally there was an extern sister, usually illiterate and unable to read the Latin prayers, who was a member of the order but not cloistered, who could be sent on errands outside the monastery walls. The extern who had come with Mere Marie Rose died soon after they arrived. So now there was only Nicole.

"If Pere Antoine gives his permission, it can be no sin," she had told the abbess.

"None at all," Mere Marie Rose agreed. "The altar breads are to be delivered three times a week. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Promptly at the hour of noon."

"But, ma Mere," the words had tumbled out of her. Nicole had not thought about how they would sound, until it was too late to get them back. "I will miss three dinners." Already the gray habit that had fitted her perfectly two months earlier needed to be carefully folded at the waist before she could tie it with the Franciscan cord. Otherwise it constantly worked its way free and dragged on the floor, a sin against the Holy Rule.

"You think too much about food, my daughter," the abbess scolded. "You will beg for your dinner today in penance."

"Oui, ma Mere."

"And you should know that we will save your dinners for you on the days when you must go to the chateau, child. Do you not think that we have always your best interests at heart?"

Forgive me, mon Dieu, Nicole prayed as she waited for someone to come to the gate. I have sworn to trust Mere Marie Rose as my own mother. But oh, Ste. Vierge, can you please see that my dearest mother after you and my own darling maman saves me a bit of bread and a little gla.s.s of wine as well? She had never thought herself a glutton, but she was always hungry in this place. At least now that it was June it was warmer and she did not so much mind not having a blanket at night.

A footman in the white and gold livery of the bishop's household came to the gate. "Oui?"

"I have the altar breads from the Poor Clares. For His Excellency to offer Holy Ma.s.s."

"Ah, oui, bien sur. Merci, ma Soeur."

It was the first time anyone had ever addressed her so. The nuns called the abbess ma Mere, and each other by the names they had been given in religion. Nicole felt a little p.r.i.c.kle of pride. After everything, in spite of all the difficulties, I have kept my word, mon Dieu. I have become a Poor Clare and I will do penance for the rest of my life. She pa.s.sed the small box through the bars of the gates and the footman took it. Time to go home, back to the monastery, and eat her cold dinner. She turned away from the gate, giving the skirt of the habit a little unconscious flick to keep it from tripping her up.

Cormac's mouth fell open in surprise. He knew that gesture. No wonder he had thought the small figure somehow familiar. It was Nicole Crane hidden beneath that all-covering white veil and that rough brown gown. Ayi! Maybe Quent was in Quebec as well. She couldn't have come alone.

Nicole walked quickly, head down, inviting greetings from no one; pa.s.sersby moved out of her way, offering her the deference of s.p.a.ce. If Corm approached her he would be obvious, however careful he was. Still more daunting was the presence of the priest. Corm was in a doorway thirty strides from the gates of the bishop's chateau, completely hidden from view; Pere Antoine was behind a tree directly across from the gates. Had she been less disciplined about keeping her head down and concentrating only on the hands folded at her waist, Nicole must surely have seen him.

She made her way down the hill, unaware of the two men following her. Then, in the Lower Town, the priest went one way and Nicole another. Corm hesitated only a moment before following not Pere Antoine, but Nicole. For a few seconds he thought he'd been exceptionally fortunate. There was no one in the narrow, cobbled alley she turned into. He considered calling her name, but it was too dangerous. The business that had brought him to Quebec was private. Corm strode forward, intending to catch up with her. He was still ten strides away when she abruptly opened a door and slipped inside.

Cormac swiftly covered the distance between where he was and where Nicole had disappeared. He found himself outside a door made of heavy oak planks studded with bra.s.s nails, with a black latched handle. He tried to open it, but the door was locked. Corm took a step back. The alley was full of shadows caused by the overhanging eaves of the ramshackle buildings either side. There was an odd half-barrel contraption set into the wall beside the latched door. He had no idea what it was for. On the other side was a second door, less forbidding than the first, not as heavy, with a rough cross carved into the wood. That door was not locked. Corm went inside what proved to be an empty and silent church and looked at what there was to see-the two small windows of plain gla.s.s, a few kneeling chairs, a bare altar, and behind it a grille and the heavy curtains. He would have to wait and watch and hope Nicole came out again.

Corm left the church and made his way toward the waterfront, keeping always to the shadows, every sense alert. He heard footsteps behind him and picked up his pace. He reached for the tomahawk at his waist but before he could free it Corm found himself enveloped in a crowd. People were pouring down toward the waterfront from the hills of the Upper Town.