Shadowbrook Part 29

Deep in the forest Quent heard them as he systematically cut the bonds of one captive after another, the women first, then the men. He knew that he had only as long as the war cries persisted to finish the task. "Go," he whispered to each freed captive. "South's that way." Some would be recaptured, some killed, but it was the best he could do in this day of h.e.l.lish misery and stupidity and death.

He'd told the others to go south because that was the quickest way to get out of the range of the French enemy and their Anis.h.i.+nabeg allies. For himself Quent had other concerns. As soon as he'd cut the bonds of the last captive, he headed north.

MONDAY, AUGUST 16, 1755.

THE COLLeGE DES JeSUITES, QUeBEC.

"Excellent, Xavier! Truly excellent! I had no idea that sending you into the enemy camp would have such remarkable results." Louis Roget did not look up when he spoke. His glance was fixed on the French translation of the papers Walton had taken from General Braddock the month before. The quality of the information was staggering. Merci, mon Dieu. I will be worthy.

Roget stopped running his finger down the page and jabbed repeatedly at one sentence. "This bit here about the four-p.r.o.nged advance, how does it compare with the original?" The Jesuit superior spoke a bit of English, but the written language was particularly difficult and he did not trust himself to correctly interpret every nuance. He had looked at the papers when Xavier first arrived, and listened to the priest's explanation, then demanded the material be translated into French. The task had taken his spy priest an entire day and most of the night as well. Xavier's eyes were rheumy with fatigue. "You did as I suggested?"

"I did exactly as you suggested, Monsieur le Provincial. I strengthened the words used to describe the proposed attack on Fort St. Frederic."

The baron de Dieskau was in Montreal preparing to lead a combined force of four thousand French regulars and their Indian allies to Fort Niagara. Roget knew this because collecting such bits of information was his life's work, not because Vaudreuil and Dieskau had consulted him. They were under the impression that they could organize things in New France without taking into account the opinion of the Provincial of the Society of Jesus. "Come, Xavier, I hear something in your tone. You do not believe it was wise? I insist that you speak freely."

"I entirely agree that these new men must be fully alerted to the threat, Monsieur le Provincial." Xavier had made a great point of saying that the attack on Fort St. Frederic was to be led by General William Johnson, and that he had thousands of Mohawk savages under his command. He reached for the bright red bandanna and swabbed at his forehead.

"An interesting choice of pocket cloth, my son."

Xavier glanced at the thing in his hand. "I apologize, Monsieur le Provincial. I did not realize. A woman ... in the English camp ... she ..."

"Stop sputtering, Xavier. I understand." Walton still wore the coat and breeches of his Virginia adventure. "You will change back to your soutane now that you are at home. And the red pocket cloth will be retired. Now, about this ... interpretation. You were saying-"

How could he explain what the Indians had done at the Monongahela? Xavier couldn't close his eyes without seeing them cutting the hearts out of men yet alive, and stuffing the still-beating organs into their mouths. Every night he heard the cries of the painted warriors and saw their arms and their chests running red with the blood of their victims. Almost a month now and he could rid himself of neither the horror nor the perplexity. This day you shall be with Me in Paradise. But the day had pa.s.sed him by.

"What is it, Xavier? Something is bothering you, I can tell. Speak up, man. That's a direct command."

He was vowed to obey his superiors in all things that were not sin. "I cannot understand why G.o.d did not grant me martyrdom, Monsieur le Provincial. It was so dose. If you could have seen what I saw ... Men and women alike, slaughtered, hacked apart while they were alive, their hearts consumed raw-"

"Yes, I know. And you weep that your own heart still beats in your chest, not in the belly of some brave."

"Only because I have been given this desire for martyrdom. It has been with me since I was a boy. Such a thing must come from G.o.d."

"G.o.d demands that you do your duty like a good Jesuit, Xavier. The savages may indeed have carried things to extremes. They frequently do. But have you forgotten that they were fighting on the side of the king? Of New France?"

"Non, Monsieur le Provincial, bien sur! Vous avez raaison, mais-"

"Mais rien! How could you be a martyr for the Holy Faith if you died on the wrong side of the field of battle?"

The blood drained from Walton's face, leaving him as white as his s.h.i.+rtfront. "I never thought-"

"No, of course. But in such matters you need not think. I am the voice of G.o.d for you. Not myself," Louis Roget added quickly, "my office."

"I do not for an instant doubt that, Monsieur le Provincial."

"Then obey. I order you to stop mourning the martyrdom that pa.s.sed you by. Give thanks that you have been allowed to serve the Church and His Majesty and our Holy Order so well." Roget tapped the translations. "These are magnificent, truly magnificent, Xavier."

The news of the great French victory that had preserved Fort Duquesne set church bells ringing in all Quebec, From the mighty bells of the cathedral and those of the College des Jesuites to the bells of the Convent of the Ursulines at the Hotel-Dieu and the single bell of the tiny Monastery of the Poor Clares.

Every bell had a name, and those who knew them could identify each one by its distinctive sound. The one belonging to the Poor Clares was called Maria. Its voice was sweet and true and clear. Nicole had learned only lately to ring the Maria bell. Soeur Joseph had been teaching her. Slowly, ma pet.i.te Soeur, with the rhythm of your heart. It is like singing, no? When you ring the bell you make the music of the angels. Ringing the bell is an act of prayer.

She could not follow the rhythm of her heart this day. It was thudding painfully in her chest. And she could not stop her tears. She had been crying when Mere Marie Rose found her, peeling potatoes for dinner, and sent her up to the bell tower. "Soeur Joseph cannot go. We need her in the choir for the Te Deum. I know you weep for joy, dear child, but you must dry your eyes and go and ring the bell."

How could she ever explain to the abbess, to any of her sisters? Not one of them had ever seen a battlefield. They did not know what she knew, what she had seen. So much blood, mon Dieu, so much pain. And the terrible screams of those who died in agony. She clasped the bell rope firmly with both hands and pulled slowly and surely, taking the movement as far as it would go, bending her knees to accommodate it as Soeur Marie Joseph had taught her, then rising, allowing the tension to ebb. You do not let the bell go, ma pet.i.te. You guide the release as you guided the capture, slowly, with your body and with your heart."

Her heart knew no release. It was with her beloved. I do not know if he was there, mon Dieu, in that terrible place of death. But I beg You to keep him safe. My life for his, my good G.o.d. I have given up my life with him and come here to offer You my small penances. Keep him safe. The top of the release came and the Maria bell of the Poor Clares of Quebec added its voice to the general peals of joy.

In the choir the nuns heard their bell and Soeur Joseph intoned the opening notes of the Church's great hymn of joy: Te Deum laudamus ...

The triumphal ringing of the bells had ended by the time the Provincial Superior of the black robes sat across from Vaudreuil, the newly installed governor-general of New France. "I am honored that you come to me, Monsieur le Provincial." Vaudreuil had lived eighty years, most spent in Canada, but many in France. He knew how things were arranged, and how they were meant to be arranged. The governor-general had already paid his obligatory call on the Jesuit residence. The hounds of h.e.l.l could not have dragged him back a second time. Once was a courtesy, twice was submission.

Roget knew as well as his opponent when to sacrifice a minor piece in order to gain one that was still more vital. "It was important only that you have these papers as soon as possible. Protocol is of no matter in times like these."

"I agree, of course." Vaudreuil didn't want to appear too eager, much less too impressed, but he couldn't keep his glance from dropping to the French translations at least once every third word. "You are sure these things are accurate? A clever forgery could-"

"That is why I brought them myself, Monsieur le Gouverneur-General. So that I could a.s.sure you that they were taken from the person of General Braddock by the man I sent for exactly that purpose."

"Braddock is dead over a month now." The dispatches describing the great victory at the Monongahela had been sent to every corner of the Empire. Vaudreuil had received his copy that morning, hence the great celebration throughout the city. "It is said the English buried him somewhere along the road."

"So I have heard." Roget piously signed himself with the cross. "May G.o.d have mercy on his soul. But before he died a member of the Society attended him and-"

"Braddock was a Catholic?"

"Mais non, Monsieur le Gouverneur-General. As far as I know G.o.d did not grant the general the grace of conversion. Nonetheless, a member of the Society was with him when he was wounded. And this man took these papers from General Braddock with his own consecrated hands."

Jesus! Everyone said these black robes were formidable spies as well as meddlers, but to have one of their own inside the English camp! "On the field of battle, Monsieur le Gouverneur-General. While the English general lay bleeding from his wounds." Roget p.r.o.nounced each word slowly, but without a hint of pride. "Of course I tell you all this only for your own information. So that you may be sure the doc.u.ments are to be trusted."

"And the originals, Monsieur le Provincial? It was indeed kind of you to have the translations made for me, but-"

"The Jesuit who made them is an Englishman born and bred, Monsieur. And he has spoken French for the past twenty years. There can be no doubt of either his loyalty to our Holy Faith, and thus our king and our cause, or his understanding of both French and English. Is there a better translator in all Quebec? Do you have someone here at your chateau who is more fluent in both languages?"

A pox on you, black robe. May your heart be cut out at the first possible opportunity. "Bien sur, Monsieur le Provincial. Bien sur. Still, the originals ... I should send them to France. His Majesty will-"

"Of course. I entirely agree. As soon as this fracas is over and we know the high seas are safe, the originals must go to Versailles. Until then, I a.s.sure you, Monsieur le Gouverneur-General, they are perfectly protected. I will take full responsibility."

"The responsibility for getting information to Versailles is mine, Monsieur le Provincial."

At once Roget bent his head in submission. "Exactly as you say, Monsieur le Gouverneur-General. I will have the originals delivered to you immediately."

"Excellent. I am in your debt, Monsieur le Provincial. All New France is in your debt."

"I only do my duty, Monsieur le Gouverneur-General,"

Vaudreuil rang impatiently for someone to show the Jesuit out. Quickly, before he gave in to his rage and cut out the man's tongue.

A strong inland wind greeted Louis Roget as he set out across the Place d'Armes, the wide plaza in front of the chateau. It had been calm earlier, a still and sunny afternoon, but during the hour he'd been with that old Canadian ruffian whom providence had seen fit to make a marquis a chinook had developed. He'd learned about chinooks since he'd been in this devil-sp.a.w.ned Quebec. They blew almost gale force, but brought no relief from summer's heat. This wind was hot and dry, filled with grit and dust picked up as it descended the mountains and skimmed the prairies. The Jesuit had to hang on to his biretta and struggle to keep his sweaty soutane from tripping him up as he toiled up the hills to the College. No matter. If he could he would dance his way home.

General Braddock's papers would remain where they were, hidden behind the magnificent wall created by the Champenois ebenistes. Vaudreuil would ask about them a few times, but the governor-general would not go so far as to send armed men to wrest them from the clutch of the black robes. And failing that, he would not get them. Meanwhile he would act on the information supplied by Louis Roget because he dared not do otherwise, and it would serve him well. Vaudreuil would come to know what those before him had also had to recognize: there could be no governing New France without the cooperation of the Society of Jesus. Grace aDieu! Louis Roget had met the enemy and he had won.

From his window in the Chateau Saint-Louis Vaudreuil watched until the priest was out of sight. The Jesuit was a picture of holy modesty. b.a.s.t.a.r.d. May you be staked out and left to die of thirst. May vultures pick at your flesh. Do you think I don't know that you despise me for not being French as you are French? For being Canadian? May you die a Canadian death, Monsieur le Provincial.

The governor-general turned from the window and grabbed the bell on his desk. The black slave he had acquired while he was governor of that h.e.l.lhole called Louisiana appeared before it stopped ringing. "Oui, Monsieur le Gouverneur-General."

"Bring me a gla.s.s of Burgundy. And talk to the apothecary. Have him add something that will soothe my stomach. Also, tell them to send the cook back to whatever wolf-pit he comes from. I cannot discharge my responsibilities if my digestion is challenged at every meal." It was his wife's fault. If she had not gone to Montreal to buy things she said she could not get in Quebec, he would not be at the mercy of a kitchen lacking supervision and scheming to ruin him.

The slave scurried off. Vaudreuil knew it wasn't his dinner turning his bowels to water, nonetheless he felt better for doing something. Getting rid of the cook was not, however, enough. He reached for paper and a quill. He could not trust a secretary with such information as this. In fact, he could trust no one in the government of Quebec. Every second person seemed to be under the thumb of the black robes. Those who were not, conspired with Intendant Bigot to make themselves rich by robbing the public purse. Eh bien. He had promised himself when he accepted this appointment that he would not waste his strength fighting batdes that could not be won.

There is nothing to be done about la grande societe and its larceny; Bigot's tentacles stretch too far. As for the Provincial Superior and his Society of Jesus ... Not yet Louis Roget is a thousand times more clever than Bigot. Is he clever enough to have forged a doc.u.ment and pa.s.sed it off as the English battle plans? Yes. But why? Whatever else you may be, Monsieur le Provincial, I believe you are truly a Catholic. You vie for power with me, and with this mad Franciscan whom I confess I do not understand, but I do not think you would do anything to a.s.sist the heretic English. If this information is then accurate, it must truly come from Braddock himself.

Vaudreuil was almost overcome by the hopelessness of it all. Battles you can win, he reminded himself. You are an old man and you took this a.s.signment, undoubtedly your last, for only one reason. It is up to you to see that Canada is not lost to the English by the stupidity and pigheadedness and lack of understanding in Versailles. For the moment the man who can best keep Canada safe is headed up the St. Lawrence with four thousand French regulars, Canadians, and Indians to reinforce Fort Niagara. Where, If the Jesuit is to be believed, we are not yet to be attacked.

Alors. I have more reasons to believe Louis Roget than to disbelieve him. So you must go south, mon ami le marechal de camp. To Lake Champlain, or even farther, to Lake St. Sacrement. Vaudreuil paused for a moment, trying to remember the old Indian name for that lake, the one he'd learned as a boy. Ah yes, Bright Fish Water. A long way away perhaps, but that is where they must confront this General Johnson and his Mohawks.

Vaudreuil hesitated a moment longer, ordering his thoughts, then dipped his quill in the fine jade inkpot that his predecessor had somehow left behind and began: My dear Dieskau, I have it on no less than the authority of the Provincial Superior of the black robes that ...

TUESDAY, AUGUST 31, 1755.

THE SIGN OF THE NAG'S HEAD, ALBANY

"Lake George," Annie said. "That's what they's gonna call it. No more Bright Fish Water."

"They canna do that," Hamish protested. "It's been Bright Fish Water right along. The Sa.s.senachs canna come along and name it for their b.l.o.o.d.y heretic king just 'cause they've a mind to do so."

"Lower yer voice, you Scots fool. Show some respect. It's the king's standard is right up there behind ye, remember. All around, if it comes to that." Annie jerked her head in the direction of the fort and the hills surrounding the town, and squirmed on the taproom bench so they were sitting a bit closer.

He could smell the sourness of her, and the s.e.x. She'd just come in from the yard where she did her business. "It's him as told you about the name?" Hamish said. "That wee nubbin fancies himself a soldier that just left?" Yorkers, they were called, these fresh-faced young men in their blue coats with the bright red facings. Lads that could na wait to be slaughtered in the glory o' war. Christ ha' pity on 'em all. But may the Blessed Virgin bring victory to the French and the Holy Faith.

"Indeed. I've no idea what kind of a soldier he may turn out to be, but it's a fine strong boy he is in other ways." Annie laughed raucously and banged a coin on the table signaling for the punch bowl. "C'mon, you Jacobite papist, drink up and I'll buy you a refill."

Hamish gave her a black look, but he downed the last of his rum and let her ladle him a gla.s.s of punch when the bowl came. "Thin stuff," he complained after the first sip. "Canna serve to keep the cold from a man's bones."

"It's summer, you daft b.u.g.g.e.r. It's cooling you want, not heating."

He was not interested in discussing the weather. "You're sure," he said, "Lake George?"

"'Course I'm sure. Way I heard, it's Johnson himself what said it. From this day forward," Annie rolled the words in a fair imitation of a man making a solemn proclamation, "this shall be Lake George."

A few of the blue-coated Yorkers standing nearby heard her and turned. One even lifted his mug of ale in salute. Hamish had all he could do to keep from walking over and punching the man in the face. He leaned toward Annie and spoke in a gruff whisper. "I don't care who this William Johnson fancies himself to be, with his blue-coated laddies pretending they're soldiers and G.o.d knows how many Mohawk savages ready to do his bidding. It's Bright Fish Water. As it's always been."

The force William Johnson was gathering to take Fort St. Frederic at Crown Point had been a.s.sembling in and around Albany for weeks. But all Johnson had done was to send an advance party north as far as the Great Carrying Place and build Fort Edward. Edward, after yet another b.l.o.o.d.y Sa.s.senach, the heretic duke o' York, Hamish thought. And G.o.d help him, he was o' two minds as to whether it was in his best interests to bide and let things develop as they might-which was the advice o' John Lydius-or run to Quebec and warn that blackhearted Pere Antoine o' what was to be. For the sake o' Holy Church, o' course. Though it might help his alliance with the Franciscan as well.

The conflict was eating into his gut. The thought of anything changing at Shadowbrook before it was his made it worse. Acid bile rose in his gorge. "What does John Hale say about it, then? It's you as should know better 'n anyone what's in the mind o' that p.i.s.s-poor excuse for a man. What's he say?"

"Ain't seen him in a fortnight. But I can tell ye this. Don't matter none what John Hale says. He made over Bright Fish Water and the bit they call the Great Carrying Place, and a good deal more besides."

"In Christ's name, what are you talking about, woman? Made over to who? When?"

"Nearly a year past, in New York City. Leastwise that's what I was told." Annie sat back and watched the effect of her words. Jesus, but these men were something. Thought they were G.o.d Almighty soon as they had a stiff c.o.c.k Didn't realize it only made 'em easier to lead around. "Made it over to a Jew," she said.

"I don't believe you." Hamish downed the last of the punch and called for rum.

"Believe as ye like. It's the truth nonetheless."

"It's not."

The barmaid brought Hamish a large mug of rum. He gave her two coppers and an aimless pat on the behind.

"S'truth," Annie repeated. Aw, why was she doing this now? She'd known as soon as she heard the story that it was important, something she could use to make things a little better for herself. She knew she should keep quiet until she saw a way to do that. Instead here she was spilling the tale to this Scot. For no good reason except she wanted him to know she was something more than a stupid wh.o.r.e meant for f.u.c.king and abusing.

Almost two years the Scot had been paying her to talk about John Hale, that vicious rat. The month before he'd worn her down and made her tell how she had to let Hale p.i.s.s on her 'fore he f.u.c.ked her. She'd been feeling sorry for herself and needing someone as would listen to her woes. So she'd told him the whole thing and b.l.o.o.d.y Hamish Stewart laughed. Oh, he'd said sorry fast enough, but she knew he wasn't. Not really. He only said it so she'd go on talking. All right then, she'd tell him how his precious Shadowbrook-and did he think she was such a fool she didn't know that was what he wanted, though she couldn't see as how he'd ever get it-wasn't quite the prize as it had been before. "One of them sutlers as is all over the place selling things to the Yorkers, he told me. Worked for the governor's brother down in New York City he did. Oliver someone."

"Oliver De Lancey."

"Yes, that's right. Anyway this sutler, he was a footman for this De Lancey fella ..."

"What about John Hale?" Hamish took a golden guinea from his purse and pushed it across the table. "C'mon, Annie la.s.s, I always take care o' you when you do right by me. What did he say about John Hale?"

Annie swallowed hard. She wanted to s.n.a.t.c.h up the s.h.i.+ny coin before the Scot changed his mind. But what she knew was worth more. Her gut told her it was. And she'd never have a better opportunity. "A guinea ain't enough," she muttered. "Not for this story, it ain't."

"How's this then." Hamish put another golden lady on top of the first. Two guineas. Annie's mouth was dry and her palms were sweating, but she clenched her fists in her lap and shook her head. Hamish hesitated, then made up his mind. All his past investments in Annie had proved themselves worthwhile. "Very well," he said softly. "Five golden ladies. But only if I decide the information's worth that much. C'mon, la.s.s, five guineas. 'Tis a fortune."

A fortune for the likes of her, that's what he meant. Thing is, it was. If she got five golden ladies she wouldn't have to come back to the Nag's Head for two months. Maybe longer. "Five guineas," she agreed. "But you puts 'em all on the table right now, Hamish Stewart. No promises, mind. Cash money."

Hamish turned to the wall and opened his purse and counted out three more coins, then turned back and added them to the stack. Annie covered the money with her hand, but he slapped his big maw over hers so she couldn't actually take it. "Not so fast, la.s.sie." He leaned forward and fixed her with his single eye. "The truth. Otherwise I'll na be responsible for what I might do."

"It's all true. Just like the sutler told me." She craned her neck in all directions before she continued. No one was paying them any mind-they were both regulars at old man Groesbeck's after all-nonetheless she whispered. "John Hale was at a meeting in Oliver De Lancey's house, with another man whose name I don't know, and a Jew. Somebody Levy I think it was."

She'd been right about how important this story was. Annie knew it when she saw Hamish's cheeks turn a blotchy purple, and saw him draw his eyebrows close over his nose. Ah G.o.d, and aren't ye feeling a bit poorly now, my fine Scots c.o.c.k-of-the-walk Think Annie's for f.u.c.king and forgetting, do ye? We'll see.

"Hayman Levy," Hamish said.

"Yes. That's the name the sutler said." She chose her words carefully, watching their effect, feeling the thrill of power. "John Hale made over a whole piece of Shadowbrook to Hayman Levy. Back when he was a footman the sutler was right outside the door of the room where it happened. He heard everything. Even looked through the keyhole and saw John Hale sign the paper."