Shadowbrook Part 28

"Les soldats sont arrives! Vive la France! Vive la France Nouvelle!"

The troops had arrived. The British attempt at a blockade had failed.

"Fog," Corm heard someone say as the news spread from the decks of the s.h.i.+ps to the waiting crowd. "Did the English in, the fog did. Only managed to capture one of our s.h.i.+ps."

"And that only by lying."

The story circulated of how the officer aboard the French frigate Alcide had called out to the approaching English s.h.i.+p Dunkirk, "Are we at peace or at war?"

"And this pig English captain, he shouts: 'La paix, la paix!' That's how he got close enough to attack the Alcide. They are all liars, les Anglais."

"But he told the truth; he had no right to attack. We are at peace."

"Do you think so?" The speaker was a fisherman. "This does not look like peace to me."

Thanks to the loss of the Alcide, the arriving force was made up of slightly fewer than six thousand men, led by a general Jean-Armand, baron de Dieskau, who had already served with distinction in Europe. He was to be in charge of all things military in New France. With him was a new governor-general to rule in all civilian matters, Pierre de Rigaud, marquis de Vaudreuil. Vaudreuil had been born in Canada; he could be counted on to understand how things were here in the north.

So, Monsieur le Roi, Cormac thought, official peace there may be, but you are definitely showing your saber. Are you then the white bear? It was hard to think of Louis XV as any such thing. They said he was ruled by his mistress, the exquisite Madame de Pompadour, and that she arranged for other women to satisfy his prodigious s.e.xual appet.i.tes while she involved herself in the affairs of state. They said that Pompadour was the true ruler of France. Ayi! How could he know that the white bear was not a female? Had not Bishkek first thought the bear might be Pohantis?

The Quebecois were still arriving at the dock. Cormac could make out a cl.u.s.ter of Jesuits come down from their hilltop fortress, and not far away, though separate from the black robes, Pere Antoine the Franciscan. Of Nicole or any other nuns dressed as she had been, there was no sign.

In most Poor Clare houses there was a room called a parlor, divided by a curtained grille so the nuns could receive guests while not exposing themselves to the outside world. The convent of the Poor Clares of Quebec was too small and too poor to have a parlor. But since the ending of the Council of Trent in 1563 a confessional had been obligatory for administering the sacrament of penance to women. The one that served the Poor Clares was built into the grille behind the altar, a small and narrow double-sided box with two doors. The one on the nun's side could be opened only from the cloister. The one in the public chapel was so cleverly crafted that the door could not be distinguished from the wall unless one knew it was there.

Once inside the box, penitent and confessor were separated by a part.i.tion that had a tiny square grille at eye level. The confessional was the only place in her convent where the abbess could appropriately speak with Pere Antoine. "It went well?" she asked.

"Perfectly," the priest a.s.sured her. The wooden grille between them lacked a curtain, but Pere Antoine was careful to look only straight ahead and the abbess had lowered her black veil so it covered her face. "The townspeople were careful not to disturb her," he said. "And Soeur Stephane comported herself exactly as she should."

Mere Marie Rose sighed with satisfaction. "She is almost too perfect. Sometimes I think that it is too great a gift, to be given such a perfect vessel of sacrifice. I am not worthy."

"Nor am I," the priest agreed. "But it is not for ourselves, remember. It is for Holy Church, and the Order, and for the salvation of Indian souls."

"Oui, mon Pere. That is why I was so worried when this demand came from His Excellency. To send her outside three times a week ... Who knows what corrupting influence might-"

"There will be none," Antoine said firmly. "It is the work of G.o.d, this order from the bishop. Soeur Stephane will have repeated chances to face the temptations of the outside world and refuse to give in to them."

"Much strength will be required to do that." In those moments when she had occasion to open the cloister door-however legitimately-did not Mere Rose herself sometimes give in to an unfitting curiosity about life beyond her cloister walls? The good G.o.d alone knew how much He asked of those who left everything for his love. "We must pray very hard to support her in this trial."

"Indeed. But perhaps we should do more than pray. I have been thinking ..."

It was hot and airless in the cramped wooden box. And her hips were beginning to ache with kneeling in the restricted s.p.a.ce. "Oui, mon Pere?"

"Perhaps it is time to introduce the litlle sister to the discipline."

Mere Marie Rose did not immediately reply. It was not customary to require such a rigorous penance of a novice. In the Rule of the Poor Clare Colettines a nun was not to take the discipline until she had made her first vows. In matters of interpreting the Holy Rule for her daughters, the abbess had ultimate authority. None but the Pope himself could overrule her in some things, or question her in others. It was a great honor, but also a source of constant tension. Abbesses were the only women in the Church who did not submit to men always in all things.

A slight cough from the other side of the box broke the silence. "Only if you think it wise," Antoine said. "I defer to you in all things to do with your daughters, of course."

It was not only the Father Delegate who must be considered in this matter. The bishop could easily have been given enough altar breads to see him through the weeks of his novena. It was at His Excellency's insistence that a fresh supply was to be delivered three times a week. He was testing her, reminding Mere Marie Rose that every bishop was a king in his own diocese, whether or not he had permitted the establishment of a house of religious who answered only to the successor of Peter in Rome. "I will think about it," Mere Rose said. "And I will pray."

"I as well," Antoine promised. "But this matter of the trips to the chateau of the bishop, they are not, I think, anything for us to be concerned about."

Corm watched the alley all day on Tuesday but Nicole did not appear. On Wednesday, shortly before noon, the monastery door opened and she stepped into the street. How could he not have recognized her instantly? Now that he had, Corm was struck by how much Nicole was herself even in these strange clothes with her face veiled. He stayed well behind until she had cleared the alley and the road beyond it and started up the hill along the broad road known as the Cote de la Montagne. Then gradually he began closing the distance between them.

"Mademoiselle Crane ..."

At first she did not register that the quiet voice was calling to her. She no longer thought of herself with that name.

"Nicole ... It's me, Cormac Shea." Her shoulders stiffened and she paused and half swung in his direction. "No, don't turn around. Keep walking. Up ahead five strides there's a stand of fir trees. Go in there. Look as if you mean to relieve yourself."

This was the part of the journey that was most isolated, a stretch of road with no houses, not even cobbles, only hard-packed dirt beneath her feet. There was no one in front of her to see her disappear into the copse that was now just ahead. But behind her? No. Cormac Shea would not have spoken if there was any chance they were observed. She had trekked through the wilderness with him long enough to know that.

The fir trees were at hand, Nicole pulled her skirts tight to her and stepped off the dirt road onto the fallen needles that covered the earth beneath the trees. The copse smelled of urine and she saw a couple of suspicious little mounds.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle. I am glad to see that you got what you wanted."

He looked as she remembered him. Straight dark hair slicked back and tied behind his head, his face bronzed by the sun except for the white scar. "It is you," she murmured.

"Did you expect an imposter?"

She gave a slight shake of her head. "No, not really. I knew your voice."

"Oui, apres tout ..."

"Apres tout," she agreed. "But no thanks to you. You broke your word and left me behind." Oh! why had she said that? Now she had the sin of resentment to confess. Until this moment she had committed no sin and need tell no one of meeting Monsieur Shea. "Why are you here? Is it a secret? You must tell me?"

"Why would my presence be a secret?"

The arrival of the troops and of the new governor and Dieskau the great general had penetrated even the cloister of the Poor Clares. The nuns had spoken of these things the evening before during recreation. "There is talk of war. We are beginning a perpetual novena to Our Lady of Victory. If you-"

"You pray for French success?"

"Of course. So the Holy Faith may be proclaimed. The Indians must have the Gospel preached to them, Monsieur Shea-" Nicole broke off. Last night in her cell she had not been able to stop herself from thinking of the many things Quent had told her about the Indians. Pere Antoine and Mere Marie Rose and all the authorities of the Church said that if the Indians died without baptism they could never enter heaven. For herself, she could not truly believe that. The Mohawk chief who had convinced Quent to take her to Quebec-surely he was a good man who deserved heaven. It could not be his fault that he did not know that Jesus Christ was G.o.d. Would le bon Dieu penalize good people for their ignorance?

"Look, Mademoiselle Crane, I-"

"You must call me Soeur Stephane now. That is my name in religion."

"Soeur Stephane, then. I didn't come to argue with you about the afterlife. It's this one that concerns me. Quent brought you to Quebec, didn't he?"

She nodded. "Oui." She could not speak his name aloud. If she did it would burn in her mouth all day. The way it burned always in her heart. She had added that to the reasons for her life of penance, that her beloved, though a heretic Protestant, might be allowed to enter heaven.

"Where is he now? I must find him, it's urgent." Corm could feel Memetosia's deerskin medicine bag around his neck, beneath his hunting s.h.i.+rt.

"I do not think he is still in Quebec," she said. "It's June. Monsieur Hale brought me here last September."

Cormac was startled. Somehow he had made himself believe that everything was coming together, that the answers he sought were almost available to him. Finding Nicole here meant he would find Quent close at hand. As for the arrival of the French troops at the same time, it was all a sign. Just as Kekomoson's dream and the appearance of Philippe Faucon had been a sign.

Nicole glanced anxiously up at the sliver of sky between the branches of the evergreens. The sun was almost directly overhead. "It is almost noon. They expect me at the bishop's chateau." She reached into the pocket of her habit and withdrew a small box. "Altar breads. For His Excellency. I must go."

Noon. Marni would be coming in from the fields about now. She would come back to the house and take a cold drink because the work had made her thirsty. And if he were there they would strip off their clothes and ring out a cloth in rainwater and bathe each other beside the fire. Then they would lie down on his sleeping mat and she would give herself to him and- Nicole knew just from looking at him that he was very far away. What did that mean? What did any of this mean? She didn't know. "Monsieur Shea, please, I must go."

"How do you know Quent isn't still in Quebec? Is his father still alive?"

"I do not know about the elder Monsieur Hale. He was alive when I left. But-" She broke off. Monsieur Shea knew nothing about the renegades attacking Shadowbrook. "I must go now. Truly. But on Friday I will be making this journey again, at the same time. I will meet you here and try to tell you more."

"You promise? You must promise me, Mademoi-Soeur Stephane." All the answers were waiting for him. He had only to pull the threads together and the pattern would be revealed. Then he could go back to Marni.

"I promise," Nicole said.

He left the copse first, whistling softly a few seconds later to tell her it was safe for her to come out into the road. Nicole continued on her way up the hill, with her head down and her hands clasped demurely at her waist, and the white veil swinging softly around her shoulders.

Chapter Seventeen.

FRIDAY, JULY 9, 1755.

THE OHIO COUNTRY.

THE QUIET WAS deadly. The flying column had crossed the Monongahela and come upon relatively open country. They were, Quent realized, in an Indian hunting ground. Probably Lenape, possibly Shawnee. In either case it was a part of the forest where the underbrush was burnt off regularly to provide better accessibility to fodder and so attract more game. Braddock had been riding at the column's head, but Quent couldn't see him now. He turned, looking for the General, and spotted him trotting his horse rearward along the line of march, issuing orders as he went. The precise formation of the two regiments tightened in his wake. Officers called out orders and the drums beat faster. In response the soldiers picked up their pace.

Fort Duquesne was six leagues away. In country like this, for the flying column, three hours ahead. Possibly four. After so long and such a h.e.l.lish march, the men were heartened by the nearness of their objective. Quent could feel their spirits rising. They were sure that after a siege they would take the fort, because Braddock said so. And to a somewhat lesser extent, so did Was.h.i.+ngton. Quent was a h.e.l.l of a lot less sure. He raised his glance and searched the sky. Still no birds, not even a lone crow circling overhead looking for carrion. He studied the trees on either side, trying to see deep into the forest. Nothing. He heard no small animals scurrying, only the rhythmic thump of the drums, beating in unison, measuring the march. Both regiments carried their colors, the banners hanging Ump in the hot, still afternoon. But there were watching eyes. Quent could feel them.

He was starting to move deeper into the forest so he could scout the right flank when Scarouady came up beside him. The Iroquois had been to the rear, checking on the column's end. "The women are just now crossing the river," he told Quent. Meaning the column's tail was a league or so behind its head. Satisfactory. Except for the unnatural silence. Scarouady felt it as well. Quent could hear it in his voice. "These Cmokmanuk warriors," he demanded irritably, "can they not walk without the war drums?"

"Not and keep together."

"And our great war chief says they must stay together." The Iroquois Half King spat on the ground to show his disdain for Braddock's ideas.

Quent started to say something, then stopped. Another of the Iroquois-a Cayuga who moments before had snaked off to scout the left flank-was coming toward them, crouching and moving as rapidly as he could. Quent felt the p.r.i.c.kles begin at the back of his neck "Hanio! Aiesahswatenien!" Look! We're under attack.

Both the Half King and Quent dropped to the ground at the same moment. The other Iroquois braves did the same. Quent raised his head to look for Braddock. He was still on horseback and trotting along the margin of the march, but now he was going forward, heading for his customary place at the front. Was.h.i.+ngton was beside him. Jesus, G.o.d Almighty. "Colonel Was.h.i.+ngton! General!" Quent shouted. "We're surroun-"

The first arrow was aimed straight for Braddock. He was saved only because at that moment he turned to look for the source of the shouting voice. His horse wasn't so lucky. A musket ball took the animal out from under the general. Was.h.i.+ngton leaned down and offered his hand to Braddock, who took it and hauled himself into the saddle behind the Virginian. The two men pounded for the column's head.

There was a storm of arrows now and musket fire. There were war whoops, bloodthirsty screams that caused fear even in Uko Nyakwai, the Red Bear. G.o.d knows how the men felt who had never heard them before, and who had spent the last few weeks brooding on stories of Indian brutality and torture. Quent knew the only way to fight the fear of battle was to issue your own scream of challenge. "Ahi! Neyezonya!" He bellowed the Potawatomi war cry as he loaded the long gun.

Braddock and his officers were shouting commands that were mostly lost in the tumult. "Keep together! Keep them together. Bugler, sound the colors!"

The officer nearest Quent, an East Anglian he'd had an ale with most evenings since the march began, was urging his men into the parallel lines that in theory would allow them to deliver crus.h.i.+ng volleys of musketry into the enemy ranks. "We can't shoot 'em if we can't see 'em, sir," a young American recruit protested. "We need to-" The boy's words were cut off by a musket ball to his chest. In seconds the officer's head had been blown apart and not one of his men still stood.

Quent crawled through the gra.s.s, pulling himself forward with his elbows, stopping every once in a while to fire at something he'd seen move among the trees, then pausing to reload. Braddock had found another horse. He was everywhere, continually trying to keep his men in close formation. "Stand your ground, boys. They can't defeat us as long as you stand your ground. Bugler, sound the colors!"

A boy with a bugle ran forward to stand beneath the banner of the Forty-fourth Foot and blew the notes that summoned the scattered forces to rally around the regiment's flag. Quent watched those who tried to obey being picked off by arrows and musket b.a.l.l.s coming from the cover of the trees. Moments later one of them got the young bugler.

Quent s.h.i.+mmied his way along the ground until he was near enough for Braddock to hear him. "General! The men have to break ranks and take cover in the long gra.s.s and behind the trees!"

"Nonsense! Get out of my way, d.a.m.n you, Hale! Keep together, men. You know what to do, now is the time to do it!"

Sweet Jesus! Quent felt the tall gra.s.s around him moving, alive with men using it for cover. It was the Virginians. He could identify them by their blue coats, and by the fact that they knew enough to get themselves into the woods and under cover. Was.h.i.+ngton didn't go with them. He remained at Braddock's side, in the direct line of fire. Quent saw the young colonel's horse shot out from under him. Was.h.i.+ngton s.n.a.t.c.hed the reins of one that was riderless and sprang into the saddle. "Stand your ground, men!" Echoing Braddock's order and his confidence. "They can't beat us if we stand our ground!" The soldiers were desperately trying to follow orders. The result was to force them into an ever smaller square, an ever more defined target.

The men wearing bearskins were the enemy's prey of choice. The French may have felt constrained by the European custom of not deliberately killing officers, but their Indian allies had learned to pick them off one by one. The redcoats were helpless without them. They were trained to follow commands instantly and without question; without those commands no one had any idea what to do except try to obey Braddock and stand their ground.

In the woods on either side it was tomahawks and fixed bayonets and hand-to-hand combat between the Indians and the Virginians. Scalps were stripped from the living and the dead by both white men and red. An Indian came at Quent from the rear and he swung round, cursing the fact that he no longer had his dirk, and used his tomahawk to split the man's skull. Jesus G.o.d Almighty. The brave was Potawatomi. Quent felt nausea rise, then disappear as he took on a Shawnee seeking the most prized trophy of the day, Uko Nyakwai's red scalp. Quent dispatched the Shawnee and spotted a few Lenape behind him. s.h.i.+ngas and the other Ohio Country chiefs hadn't simply refused Braddock's war belt, they had been so disgusted with the treatment they received from him they'd decided to fight with the French.

The marching drums were silent now, but the sounds of the battle were deafening. Shouted commands, war whoops, and above all, the never-ending screams. Quent's long gun was useless in these close quarters. He fought his way to a tall tree near the cleared area, then climbed as high as he could. He had to squint to see through the smoke hanging over the battleground, but he could tell that the confusion was worse than before. Braddock was in the midst of it, riding what had to be his fourth or fifth horse and shouting out orders that his men now ignored, their terror too great. Many had thrown down their weapons and were running. Most were brought down by an arrow or a musket ball, others were dragged away by the braves. Quent knew they'd be tied up deep in the forest and reclaimed later. Captives were the most important thing any warrior could bring back to his village. The prisoners would be given the chance to prove themselves under torture, then a few would be adopted to make up for those killed here today. The rest would be killed and eaten.

The tail of the flying column had finally caught up with its head, but rather than reinforcing their comrades the new troops added to the general melee. The new officers too were quickly spotted and killed. The women were almost all captured. Four or five times Quent shot a brave in the act of dragging a woman into the forest, only to have another seize her while he was still reloading.

The ground was becoming a carpet of bodies, and parts of bodies. Quent could see a headless and legless trunk right below him, the red coat still intact, its buff-colored facings indicating a member of the Forty-eighth Foot. The pair of arms weren't from the same victim-the turned-back cuffs were yellow, indicating the Forty-fourth.

Quent got off another shot and took down a brave who had been hurtling toward one of the officers. The barrel of the long gun was smoking hot, but he reloaded in the s.p.a.ce of twenty heartbeats. This time when he lifted the gun to his shoulder and tried to sight, he saw the doctor, Walton, moving on his knees among the bodies on the field. Sweet Christ, the man was mad. You couldn't minister to the wounded in conditions like these. Quent watched him for a moment, then swung the gun around to where a whooping brave-Abenaki from the look of him-was aiming his musket at Braddock. Quent fired, but he was a second too late. He saw the general go down. The Abenaki took a step toward his feilen victim, then the top half of his body separated from the lower, neatly sliced apart by Quent's blast.

"Absolve peccatis, Domine." Absolve thy servant from all sin, Lord. Xavier Walton had been carrying holy oils about his person for just this eventuality. He kept them hidden in the pocket of his jacket and every few seconds moistened the forefinger of his right hand, then traced a cross on the forehead of a dying or dead man as he hovered over him, whispering Latin pet.i.tions for the salvation of his soul. Protestant heretics all of them, but his task was to give them the opportunity to renounce their sin. Who knew what thoughts of repentance might cross a man's mind in the final moment of life? "Absolve peccatis, Domine." He could do no less than to pray for these sinners, and hope that eventually they would be admitted to heaven. Any minute the martyrdom he had so longed for would come. Walton was convinced of it. Surely he would not escape. This day you shall be with Me in Paradise. You promised, Lord. "Absolve peccatis, Domine." The Jesuit crawled to the next red-coated body. His finger hovered above the man's forehead. It was the general. The front of his uniform was covered in blood, but Braddock was breathing.

"No doctoring now ... have to get up ... a horse ..."

Walton got his arms under Braddock's torso and dragged him across the ground, through the spilled entrails, b.u.mping over bodies whole and dismembered, until finally he reached the scant shelter of a large oak whose branches almost reached the ground.

The Jesuit's breath came in hot, hard gasps; Braddock's were shallow and sounded as if he were expelling bubbles. Walton lay his hand over the general's chest and felt the rapidly beating heart but not the steady thump of fresh blood being pumped out of a damaged artery. The yellow facings of Braddock's red coat were stained neither by blood nor dirt. Walton's fingers were slick with Braddock's blood as he worked the b.u.t.tons open, then pushed the coat aside. Holy Mother of G.o.d ... Braddock had taken a musket ball directly to the chest. The breastbone had prevented total penetration and the musket ball was now acting as a plug, stopping the flow of blood. "You are a man favored by G.o.d, General Braddock," Walton whispered. "You should give thanks."

Braddock's eyes showed that he'd heard, but when he tried to speak no words came. The Jesuit pressed a finger over the wounded man's Ups. "Save your strength. You are fighting for your life, and perhaps your salvation. Listen to me, and just nod. Do you renounce Satan and all his works?" Braddock's eyes showed panic. "I am trying to save your soul," Walton whispered urgently. "You are mortally wounded, man. Do you renounce all heresies and offer your full allegiance to Jesus Christ and His Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church?"

Braddock understood. Walton, the English doctor, was a Catholic and therefore a spy. He had no weapons; his only hope was to kill the man with his bare hands. Braddock lifted an arm, stretching toward Walton's throat. The gesture caused a fire to light in his chest, the pain such that a small scream was torn from him. Then he pa.s.sed out.

Walton had seen the packet of papers wrapped in oilskin as soon as he parted the general's coat. He had made the man's salvation his first concern, but it was too late-or maybe too early-to save him from h.e.l.lfire. His second duty was to aid the French forces in whatever way he could and help bring Holy Church and the authentic Gospel of Jesus Christ to this New World, and perhaps to speed the day when the heretical and schismatic king of England would be forced from the throne, and Xavier Walton's beloved country returned to the rule of those who avowed the True Faith. He reached for the doc.u.ments and slipped them inside his own jacket.

"Dr. Walton!" Was.h.i.+ngton had found a fresh horse and dashed for the place where the general lay. He looked at the fallen man. "Is he dead?"

"Not yet, but dying."

"We must move him." Was.h.i.+ngton summoned two men and charged them with carrying Edward Braddock from the field. There was an instant when Braddock opened his eyes and frantically tried to signal that Walton was a traitor who must be immediately arrested or killed. "Don't agitate yourself, sir," Was.h.i.+ngton murmured. "Save your strength. We'll get you clear of all this." Braddock tried to reply, but produced only burbles through his bloodstained lips.

The job of command, Was.h.i.+ngton realized, had fallen to him. The place had become a killing field. "Buglers! Sound the retreat!"

Retreat wasn't difficult. The Indians had no interest in pursuing Was.h.i.+ngton and his soldiers. Instead the braves flooded the field and began looting and scalping corpses and wounded alike. Any heart they found still beating they cut out and ate. Their cries of triumph could be heard everywhere.