Shadowbrook Part 47

"The man, ma Mere, his accent ... I do not think he is like the others. I think perhaps he has been sent by ..." Angelique's voice dropped to a whisper. "General Wolfe, ma Mere. Possibly. I mean, I cannot-"

"Did you smell no brimstone, Soeur Angelique? Feel no heat of the devil's fire?"

"On no, ma Mere. I do not mean-"

Marie Rose put down her quill. "Very well, ma Soeur, I will go to the turn."

"I will come with you, ma Mere. I will bring holy water and-"

"I will confront the devil alone, Soeur Angelique. You may go back to your ch.o.r.es."

The little Angelique was quite correct. The man spoke French badly, and with an English accent. So, a man sent by the General Wolfe? Not likely, but entirely possible. "Please, monsieur, I wish to be certain that I understand. If you would kindly repeat-"

Quent marshaled all his patience. "I am telling you, madame, that you and your nuns are in grave danger."

"On whose authority do you say this, monsieur?"

"On the authority of common sense, madame."

Marie Rose leaned her forehead against the wood of the turn. Only for a moment, and only because she was alone. It was imperative that none of her nuns know how weary she was. "Apparently common sense has become a much more common virtue since I have entered the cloister. You are the fourth person to tell me of our danger, monsieur."

"Then why are you still here?"

"May I ask, monsieur, what business that is of yours?" A question only to gain time. While she considered. Could it be him? Yes, it was possible.

"I am concerned for you and the other nuns, madame."

A stranger with an English accent who does not know how to address a nun. The very large redheaded man who brought Soeur Stephane that first day. "Are you perhaps most concerned for one of my nuns, monsieur? One in particular." Holy Spirit, grant me wisdom and discernment. And let him not hear the pounding of my heart. "If that is so, I can a.s.sure you that we are all of one opinion."

Jesus G.o.d Almighty. Was there no reasoning with the woman? "Madame, the English soldiers have taken Pointe-Levis. They are now directly across from you. They are not of your religion, madame, and they will not respect your way of life. You must all leave this place. The Lower Town in particular is not safe."

The redcoats had made up a ditty. They sang it all the time, made up verses to suit whatever bellicose mood took them: And when we have done with the mortars and guns,

If you please, Madame Abbess, a word with your nuns.

Each soldier shall enter the convent in buff,

And then never fear, we will give them Hot Stuff!

Even Wolfe had laughed at this latest version.

"Madame, do you hear me? I truly think-"

"I think, monsieur, that you have put yourself in some peril to bring us this warning, and I am sure that G.o.d will reward you for your kindness. Now it is best if you go away."

"And will you do the same, madame?" He stamped down his frustration with her obstinacy, not letting himself shout the words.

"No, monsieur, we will not. We have taken a vow to remain enclosed in this place. If we are to die here, then so be it." Angelique and Francoise were both making a novena to pet.i.tion for martyrdom. Joseph had started another. Her request was for quick martyrdom, without being tortured first. It was Stephane who said she was quite sure English soldiers would not torture nuns. All, Marie Rose thought, a matter of definition. "Good night to you, monsieur. I shall hold you in my prayers."

"They have all but emptied the Lower Town of habitants," Quent told Wolfe. "Your ammunition will be wasted, General."

"Never that. Makes the men feel good to fire their guns. Besides, it'll put the fear of G.o.d in the enemy. Still ... You're sure about the locals?"

Quent nodded. "Very sure."

"You've been over there, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"b.l.o.o.d.y d.a.m.n. I might have known. How did you manage it? The way you look, I should think you'd be easy to spot."

"There are ways, General."

No one would have thought much about an Indian standing in the alley, leaning into the turn conferring with the invisible nuns. The man with Huron face-markings and blacked hair, wearing a smock and breeches, would be a.s.sumed to be one of the Christian Indians from the Jesuit missions come to aid in the defense of Quebec.

"Yes, of course," Wolfe agreed. "Many ways I suppose for a man of your talents." It was Hale who had convinced him to have the redcoats' jackets made a bit freer and shorter, so they weren't as restrictive. And putting the light infantry in those caps with the black cloth under the chin, that was an excellent idea. Kept the men a bit warmer when they were belly down on the ground. "Mr. Hale, I have been thinking. Why can't our troops wear their knapsacks higher and fastened across their backs the way the Indians do? That would be an excellent accommodation, don't you think?"

"Excellent, General Wolfe. Leaves both hands free."

"Yes, my thought exactly. I shall issue the command. Mr. Hale, will you go again?"

"Sir?"

"To Quebec, Hale. Will you go again on my behalf? See if you can tell us by what manner we can get up those d.a.m.nable cliffs."

Quent fixed him with his most intense stare. "If I find a way, I'll tell you. But this idea of sh.e.l.ling the Lower Town, General, it's really not-"

Wolfe had already turned away.

SAt.u.r.dAY, JULY 12, 1759.

POINTE-LeVIS.

Not yet dawn. Wolfe stood on the battlements, wrapped and m.u.f.fled against the rain and the chill and the nagging ache in his lower belly, doing up the b.u.t.tons of his breeches. Sweet Jesus, what wouldn't he give for a proper p.i.s.s, one without the burning. A lot. But not everything, by d.a.m.n. Not Quebec. I'll have this prize if I have to stay here until November. And if there's nothing left but rubble by the time I take it, well, that's their choice.

He raised his hand. The grenadiers in their tall mitered caps ran forward and lit the charges, then dashed out of the line of fire. The bombardment of Quebec began with a hail of cannonb.a.l.l.s that fell into the river. The officers in charge of the sh.e.l.ling called out the adjustments to be made and the reloading began.

The goal was simply to have their ammunition reach the sh.o.r.e. Everyone a.s.sumed that even if the French engineers were wrong and General Wolfe was right and cannon could do damage from this distance, only the Lower Town would be in peril. When the gunners finally found their range, the first direct hit was at the very top of the escarpments, on the College des Jesuites. The men sent up a huge cheer, then broke into song.

Quent heard the boom of the cannon and the tumult of success from a distance. Since dawn he had been prowling the forest between the camp and the village of Beaumont, stopping every once in a while to whistle the call of the northern loon. There was no response. Even if one came he couldn't be sure it would be Corm who'd appear. The woods were full of Indians, and Canadians who'd disguised themselves as Indians. The redcoats had taken to posting double pickets after a number of single sentries at the perimeter of their camps were found killed and scalped.

In G.o.d's name, what did they expect? Gentlemanly conduct, Wolfe said. Quent whistled again, and heard only silence. Wolfe said it was the scalping he couldn't stomach. Death was to be expected in war, but mutilating the corpse ... that wasn't how gentlemen fought. h.e.l.l no, gentlemen did their damage from a distance. The chinless b.a.s.t.a.r.d b.l.o.o.d.y well knows he can't take Quebec by sh.e.l.ling it; he admits he's only doing it to keep the men occupied. What about-Quent heard the faint scuffling sounds of moccasins touching the earth.

There was an enormous maple tree to his left, with a trunk too big for him to get his arms around. Quent ducked behind it and waited, tomahawk in hand. He had his long gun, but it was almost useless in these circ.u.mstances. The sound of a shot would bring hundreds of the enemy converging from every direction. A few more moments went by. Maybe he'd been wrong. No, he could hear it more clearly now. The steady drumming of running feet. Moments later a half dozen Abenaki went by in single file. They were heading away from the English camp, not toward it, so he felt no need to engage them. How come Lantak and his renegades hadn't shown up and given him a chance to settle that old score? No sign of him so far, and probably not going to be. Outlaws like Lantak skulked about on the fringes of things. They weren't likely to relish a dash of this magnitude.

Quent waited until the Abenaki were out of sight, then whistled the loon's cry once more. There was still no answer.

THUNDER MOON, THE THIRD SUN.

THE VILLAGE OF SINGING SNOW.

Bishkek was staring at him, at least so it seemed to Corm. His manhood father was in a square box made of woven twigs. A log for his chin to rest on had been fixed across the open top. Bishkek was dead.

Every member of the village sat on blankets spread on the ground-squaws and small children in one place and men and boys in another, Bishkek's burial box between them-and ate the feast of stewed corn and berries and bear fat. No one spoke. The only sounds were made by Shabnokis and her drum and her chanted prayers. "He is not here in this body," she had told Corm when he arrived that morning. "His spirit has left this worn-out thing behind. But"-she had gestured to the air above their heads-"he is still here with us. He will not go to the next world for a time."

"How long?" Corm asked.

He meant how long had it been since the old man died. The Midewiwin squaw priest thought he was asking about the afterlife. "Until his bones are dry and in the pit with the others, his spirit will be in the village. Ten moons, maybe twelve. You must stay until then."

"I can't. I mean no disrespect to my manhood father, but I am-"

"Listen to me, bridge person. This old man stole your death." Shabnokis read the disbelief in his eyes. "I am telling you exactly what he told me. The last time you were here, when we spoke of kokotni, when was that?"

"Leaf Falling. Not the one just past. The one before that."

"Yes, that was the time when the snow fell while the trees still had leaves."

"I remember."

"Before then your manhood father dreamed that if the snow fell on you while you were in this village, it would be the last time he would see you alive. That Leaf Falling, the snow fell on you."

Corm remembered how anxious Bishkek had been for him to go. "A few flakes only. I was already leaving."

Shabnokis made a sound of disgust. "Do you think a dream is only half true? Bishkek knew you were cursed. He fasted and made many prayers to take the curse from you to himself. Now"-she turned to look again at the corpse in its burial box-"you are alive and he is dead, because he offered Shkotensi his life for yours. You will stay until the second funeral."

Corm shook his head and tried to explain, but Shabnokis had ignored him and began again to beat her drum and chant her prayers. She continued all day while the family prepared Bishkek's body for burial, and while the village feasted.

A squaw came to the men's blanket with a huge second portion of the corn and bear fat stew, scooping it from her tin cooking pot onto the flat wooden board that sat on the ground in the middle of the circle of braves and elders and young boys. The pot was a Cmokmanuk thing, traded for skins. The old art of making pots of clay was almost forgotten. Corm thought of Pontiac the Ottawa and his concern for the changes among the Anis.h.i.+nabeg, and touched the Crane People medicine bag that hung around his neck.

The honor of giving Bishkek his second helping fell to Corm as the eldest male relative. If Quent were at the feast the privilege would be his. The others waited while Corm scooped up a portion of the steaming food in his two hands, carried it to the burial box, and put it on the ground in front of his manhood father. Once Bishkek had been fed the other men eagerly dipped their fingers into the stew. They did not speak, but ate with enthusiasm, wiping their greasy hands on their chests after each mouthful. Corm managed only a few more bites. I wish I had seen you before your spirit left your body, old Father. I wish I had come even one day sooner.

When he arrived in Singing Snow Bishkek had not been dead for long. The old man's corpse was still propped in a corner of the wickiup, leaning against the wall with the knees drawn up almost to the chin so he would stiffen in the proper position for burial. Bishkek's daughters had dressed him in soft moccasins with no beadwork, because that was the Potawatomi way, and leggings made of fine elkskin cured without hair, and a breechclout of the same material. Corm had touched his manhood father's hand and found there was still some warmth.

"I looked for you everywhere among the Cmokmanuk," Pondise said "To tell you Bishkek was sick and that you should come home quickly. I left after the Cracking Ice Telling and did not return until the Telling of Much Fat."

The boy had devoted two months to the search, much of April and May. "I was in a place very far from here," Corm said. "It is no shame that you did not find me." He'd spent much of that time with the Choctaw, trying nearly every day to see Marni alone, and mostly fading. When he did catch her without the snake trapper or the little girls, she refused to talk to him and sent him away. Finally he'd gone.

"I did not find Kwashko either," Pondise added.

"He is in Quebec with the redcoats."

Corm heard the surprised murmuring of those who were crowded into the wickiup watching him pay his last respects to Bishkek. "First we will bury my manhood father," he told them. "Then I will explain."

By afternoon the corpse was rigid. Now Pondise and Corm painted Bishkek's bare chest and his face in the red and black colors of a Potawatomi brave going to war. Corm thanked the Great Spirit that he'd at least arrived in time to perform this service for his manhood father. He thanked Miss Lorene's Jesus G.o.d, too. Just in case.

When the war paint was finished, it was the turn of Bishkek's granddaughters to do him homage and they wound many strings of wampum around his neck and his arms, so in the next world it would be known how highly he was valued.

Then Kekomoson had come into the wickiup, carrying a headdress made of black beaver fur with two long quills of gray eagle feathers and another, smaller cl.u.s.ter of red feathers from the breast of a rare bird. Because he was the chief Kekomoson put the headdress on Bishkek. He watched while Corm placed the old man's bow in the burial box with him, and Pondise brought a quiver of arrows and put it beside the bow.

When everything was ready four braves carried the burial box from the wickiup to the death feast and put it where it now stood, between the eating places of the men and the women, and Shabnokis told Bishkek that they were gathered to eat with him for the last time.

When everyone had eaten as much as they wanted, the squaws took what was left away and the men smoked the calumet. Then Corm and Pondise spent the night sleeping on the ground beside Bishkek's corpse. Because it was Thunder Moon and warm, the daughters and granddaughters slept there as well. In the morning the same four braves who had carried the burial box to the feasting place lifted it again and brought it to an open area that had been prepared for first burial. Everyone followed in procession, with Corm and Pondise leading. The squaws came behind, carrying many parcels wrapped in skins and some that were large enough to require a hide for covering.

The hole prepared for Bishkek was deep enough so that the base of the casket could be set in it and it would stand firm for as long as necessary. "See," Las.h.i.+ said, "he can look back at the village and see us." Las.h.i.+ was Pondise's mother and Bishkek's youngest daughter; she had been his favorite. She put a woolen shawl in the casket with her father. It was bright red-Cmokmanuk work, like the metal pots-and Bishkek had brought it back for her the one time he visited Quebec. "So he won't be cold," Las.h.i.+ said. Corm added his tomahawk and Pondise a metal skinning knife. Corm wished it were made of flint, but he said nothing; Pondise had given what he considered his most valuable thing.

One by one the rest of the old man's kin put in his burial box something he would find useful on the journey to the next world, then a conical lid woven in the same manner as the box itself was fit snugly over the top and tied down with leather thongs.

Ixtu the Teller came forward and began the story of Bishkek's ancestors and how he came to be here in this place when it was his turn to die, and of his grandson and his two manhood sons. He did not say that one of the manhood sons was not here to honor his manhood father. If he added that to the Telling it must always be part of the story, but perhaps not a true part. The bridge person had promised there was an explanation.

They were all waiting for Corm to speak; he could feel their eyes watching him. He knew too that they were thinking that Bishkek's male line was threatened. Neither Quent nor Corm had ever planted a seed in the belly of any squaw in Singing Snow, and Pondise was still too young to marry.

Maybe it wasn't Marni who was barren. Maybe his seed had no strength and could not make any woman's belly swell. But the hot juices of his manhood had never failed him. Besides, he hadn't been Marni's first or her last. d.a.m.ned wh.o.r.e. d.a.m.ned barren wh.o.r.e. But knowing she would never be his was like a festering wound stinking inside him. The way Bishkek's flesh would stink as it fell off his dead bones. That's why the burial box was not woven too tightly. The air had to get in and help rot the flesh and dry the skeleton. When the maggots had eaten away everything that could putrefy, the whitened bones of his manhood father would be taken out of the burial box and put into the great pit with the bones of everyone else from Singing Snow. And at that second and final funeral they would chant the same words they chanted at every New Moon Telling: Haya, haya, jayek. So, so, all of us together.

When Ixtu was finished with his Bishkek Telling the bundles that the women had carried to the burial site were opened and all of Bishkek's possessions were given away. Corm got the old man's calumet, and Pondise the sealskin tobacco pouch and all the tobacco that was in it. The other men in the village divided Bishkek's blankets and the furs that kept his wickiup warm in the winter. Those that had needed a full hide to cover them were his birch sleeping frame and the cooking pots that his wife had left behind in his wickiup. Old-style clay pots, they hadn't been used for all the years since her death. After their mother was gone Bishkek's daughters cooked for him in the pots their mothers-in-law gave them. Because neither Corm nor Kwashko nor Pondise had taken a wife in the village, there was no one to inherit the cooking pots of Bishkek's wife. "I will keep them in my wickiup until the squaw to have them is chosen," Kekomoson said. Corm was furious with Quent for not being there to share the disapproval. Even though that was as stupid as saying he hated Marni Benoit and Pierre the snake trapper was welcome to her.

"Now it is time I explain why Kwashko my whiteface brother is not here, though he honored his manhood father and honors everyone in Singing Snow. It is the story I came here to tell," Corm added. "If Ixtu and Shabnokis agree that it is proper, I would like us to sit on the ground here so that Bishkek too can hear my words."