Shadowbrook Part 46

"Are you suggesting my sailors should-"

"It's an excellent idea," Wolfe interrupted. "A French flag. Just until we get through La Traverse. I believe we can dispense with tattoos and war paint."

Saunders looked at his other officers. Everyone nodded a.s.sent.

The admiral decreed that HMS Goodwill should make the first attempt. Wolfe insisted on being aboard; Saunders went as well. At the last minute Quent was invited to join them; a whim of Wolfe's, no doubt. The man seemed always to want him around, rather like a charm insuring good fortune, but at the same time appeared to despise him.

They took up their positions on the quarterdeck. "You have the helm, Captain Cooke," Saunders said. "For the duration of the pa.s.sage," he added, feeling the barbed glance of the Goodwill's actual master.

"Aye, sir."

To Quent's eye Cooke didn't seem unnerved by either the scrutiny or the difficulty of the task. Saunders hadn't said what would happen if he faded, but it didn't need saying. If Cooke survived a s.h.i.+pwreck, he'd be hung from the nearest yardarm as the man who had caused it. On the other hand, not likely any of them would survive a s.h.i.+pwreck in waters this turbulent. Summer it might be, but even from the triple-decked height of the Goodwill's topside Quent could feel the chill rising off the river.

Cooke armed himself with a quill and a sheet of paper fixed to a board, and pressed into service one of the young powder monkeys-a boy of eight who during battle ran flannel-covered cartridges of powder from the stores to the guns. The lad's job this day was to follow Cooke about with a pot of ink. "Helmsman, steady as she goes," the young captain called out. The journey had begun.

Two sounding boats traveled with them, lying off each side and hoisting different color flags to indicate the channel, but mostly it was Cooke's instinct that guided their pa.s.sage. In the heart of La Traverse the current reversed itself and flowed upstream, or so it seemed. The river was a seething, heaving ma.s.s of entrapment, a place of unending turbulence. Despite that, Cooke would spy one particular ripple and call out a change of direction. "Helmsman, half a degree to port!" To Quent, even to the other mariners, the ripple had looked no different from any of the others. "A ledge," Cooke would murmur, making note of it on the chart he was drawing. "Rock, not mud or gravel. Extreme danger."

"In Christ's name," Quent asked, "how do you know?"

"I smell it,Mr. Hale."

Quent sniffed. "I don't smell a d.a.m.ned thing."

Cooke chuckled. "When we land the troops, Mr. Hale, you will know where the infernal Indians are and what they have in mind. I won't smell anything then. And-Helmsman! Larboard a degree! That's where the channel is, not straight ahead, by Christ!" More marks quickly drawn on the evolving chart.

The pa.s.sage was a zigzag and not wide, but deep enough. When the Goodwill drew level with the lower point of the Ile d'Orleans, they struck the French colors and hoisted the red and white St. George's Cross. It didn't seem to make any difference. No one opposed them and not a shot was fired to prevent their progress. Sixty English s.h.i.+ps went through La Traverse in two days. Forty-nine were wars.h.i.+ps, the rest were transports carrying in addition to their crews eighty-five hundred soldiers and the provisions and ordnance they required to place under siege the Citadel of Quebec, the fortress city of New France.

Chapter Twenty-Six.

SAt.u.r.dAY, JUNE 28, 1759.

QUeBEC UPPER TOWN.

"EH BIEN, MES amis, les Anglais sont arrives." Vaudreuil's announcement was entirely unnecessary. Four men were gathered in the Chateau Saint-Louis: the governor-general and three guests: Pontbriand, the bishop, Intendant Bigot, and Louis Roget. They knew the English had arrived. All Quebec knew. They had tried using fire s.h.i.+ps to burn them out, and le bon Dieu had sent a fierce squall that wrecked two of their frigates. Neither served to drive them away. Wolfe's army was encamped on Ile d'Orleans, facing the town from less than half a league across the river.

"Fewer than nine thousand, I'm told." His Excellency the Bishop of New France was well looked after by Bigot, nonetheless he was rail-thin and his eyes were surrounded by perpetual dark circles. The bishops before him had spent more time in Paris than in Quebec. Pontbriand had tried to do his duty by remaining here, but ever since he had permitted Pere Antoine to bring his Poor Clares, things had gone from bad to worse, or so it seemed. Cloistered nuns devoted entirely to penance ... surely such women should bring blessings raining down from heaven, not English wars.h.i.+ps that mysteriously found their way through La Traverse.Alors, such things were in the hands of le bon Dieu. "You have twice as many men, do you not, mon General?"

Montcalm shook his head. "Not quite, Excellency. If your figures are accurate-"

"I have them on superb authority, mon General." The bishop stifled his sigh. His priests were a constant worry. Many of them were Canadian firebrands who too often put country above Church. He had instructed them to remain neutral whatever happened. He might as well have commanded the tides to flow in reverse. "I am informed by a patriot on Ile d'Orleans," His Excellency murmured.

Montcalm shrugged. "If the patriot can count, and if there are not still more fighting men aboard the s.h.i.+ps, then yes, we perhaps outnumber the English. Still ..." He had sixteen thousand men, but fewer than half were French regulars, troops he could rely on. Most of the rest were Canadians. Montcalm had seen boys of fifteen in his camp alongside men of eighty, all burning to defend Canada. G.o.d help them if a battle actually came.

"How many Indians?" Vaudreuil asked.

"A thousand perhaps." Montcalm was busy studying his fingernails.

"So few! I thought-"

"The savages are not to be relied on, Monsieur le General. Their beliefs as well as their customs will always be a mystery to us. I have heard talk of magic-some precious stones that tell them they are not to fight with Onontio."

Louis Roget stiffened, then made himself relax, but not before the bishop noticed. His Excellency had not taken his attention from the Jesuit since the meeting began. "You know something of this matter, Monsieur le Provincial?"

"No, Excellency. How could I?"

"I have no idea, mon cher Roget. But you Jesuits, you know everything, non?"

The Provincial allowed himself a small smile. "Not quite everything, Excellency." Papankamwa, the fox. Eehsipana, the racc.o.o.n. Ayaapia, the elk buck. Anseepikwa, the spider. Eeyeelia, the possum. Pileewa, the turkey. Five years now, but Roget could still hear the Midewiwin priest in the forest not far from here, chanting those words over and over, the names of six magic stones. The black robes, he promised, could have them for a price.

The Jesuit had, of course, never believed in the magic. But it wasn't necessary that he believe, only that the Indians did. That fact alone would have given him enormous power over them, if, of course, he had the stones. The amount he offered must have seemed a king's ransom to the Mide priest, but the savage had never appeared to claim his prize. Perhaps someone else offered him more, or perhaps the stones never truly existed. Roget turned away from the bishop's intense scrutiny. "It seems to me the Indians can always be convinced to fight, mon General Fighting is in their nature. You might try a bit more persuasion."

"With respect, Monsieur le Provincial, in a siege such as General Wolfe clearly intends, the savages are useless."

"Never useless," Vaudreuil said, but not Louis Roget thought, with much insistence. The Jesuit looked from Montcalm to the governor-general, his eyes probing for any new information. There was none. Each had an instinctive position. Versailles had made him a marquis, but Vaudreuil was a Canadian and he would always choose to fight like a Canadian. He had wanted to move the entire populace out of the city, send them to Trois Rivieres or Montreal, and leave the defense of Quebec to men who would hide behind trees and hara.s.s the enemy when they least expected it. And take scalps. Roget suppressed a shudder of distaste. It did not matter what Vaudreuil wanted. Word had come from Versailles in May. The governor-general was to defer to Montcalm in all matters that pertained to the war. Au fond, things were as they were. As for Montcalm ... Not the best family, certainly, but French, and a traditional soldier. "Exactly what sort of siege do you speak of, mon General?"

"The sort with which we military men are famliar. The siege en forme, Monsieur le Provincial," Montcalm proceeded, as if speaking to a young cadet. "One surrounds on three sides, with the aid of certain entrenchments brings one's guns ever nearer, and-"

"It is not possible to surround Quebec on three sides."

"Exactly. You make my point, Monsieur le Provincial. It needs only that we wait. When the winter approaches, the soldiers and sailors of His Britannic Majesty will leave."

The bishop cleared his throat "We were told with equal authority that the English could not pa.s.s La Traverse."

"Not by me, Excellency." Montcalm faced all three, the Jesuit and Vaudreuil as well as the bishop. He did not flinch. "I have left such matters to local wisdom. What would I know of the waters surrounding Quebec?"

Pere Antoine waited across from the Chateau Saint-Louis keeping to the shadows of one of the grand houses surrounding the Place d'Armes. He was s.h.i.+vering. Not so cold a day, but this trembling would not leave him. He felt hot at the same time, as if he were burning up with fever. His fingers moved automatically, counting off the beads of the rosary as he told his Aves. He had been here a long time, four recitations of the seven decades of the Franciscan Crown. Never mind. He'd seen them all go into the chateau, the bishop, and Louis Roget, and monsieur le marguis de Montcalm. They would have to come out sometime. "Je vous salue, Marie ..." On the other side of the square, the central door of the chateau opened and a pair of liveried servants took their places on either side.

The first man to appear was the bishop. His departure was marked by a flurry of ring kissing and signs of the cross sketched hurriedly in the air. Antoine had positioned himself so that his view of the chateau would not be obscured when a carriage approached. The one that did so now was pulled by four horses and covered with much gilt; it displayed the seal of New France as well as the arms of the Episcopal See. The bishop lifted the skirts of his red robes, then waited while the servants positioned themselves on either side. A footstool was put in place. His Excellency placed one velvet-clad foot on it, then, with the aid of the footmen, disappeared into the coach's interior.

Louis Roget used the fuss surrounding the departure of the bishop to slip out the door and hurry away on foot. Pere Antoine watched him for only a moment. For once the Jesuit was not the focus of his interest.

The door of the Chateau Saint-Louis remained closed for the duration of five more Aves. He was midway through a sixth-"Sainte Marie, Mere de Dieu, priez"-when the marquis appeared. The footmen snapped to attention. Another carriage rolled forward. Antoine darted across the square.

"Good day to you, mon General."

"Who are you?"

"I am called Pere Antoine."

"Ah yes, the Franciscan. I thought-" Montcalm stopped speaking. I present you this on behalf of Pere Antoine Rubin de Montaigne, the Delegate to New France of the Minister General of the Order of Friars Minor. Pere Antoine begs to inform His Excellency that what is contained herein is of the utmost importance to the defense of New France. "Not just any Franciscan, are you? You are the Delegate of the Minister General. Is that not correct, mon Pere?"

"Oui, mon General. I am unworthy, but I have that honor."

The door to the carriage was open. The footmen were waiting. "Come," Montcalm said. "Ride with me to Beauport. We will talk on the way."

"I expected this visit before now, mon Pere."

"I did not wish to intrude myself into such a business, mon General. I am a simple son of St. Francis. I do not-"

"You are Antoine Pierre Rubin de Montaigne, sir."

"No longer, sir. Now only Pere Antoine, a humble priest."

Montcalm shrugged. "Eh bien. What then does this humble priest wish of me? I am very busy, mon Pere. As you are perhaps aware, there is a war. And the English are at our doorstep."

The carriage of the marquis was a much simpler affair than that of the bishop. It was entirely black, the only relief being the Montcalm coat of arms emblazoned in gold on the door. There were black curtains on the windows, but they were pushed back. Antoine could see the fortifications that were everywhere. Eleven thousand men had dug fifty leagues of trenches and erected countless campsites and redoubts. They had worked night and day for five weeks-Montcalm had not issued the order to fortify the Beauport sh.o.r.e until the end of May-and despite endless rain which left behind a plague of flies, the men built a line of defense from the place where the St. Charles River entered the St. Lawrence, near the chateau of Intendant Bigot in Quebec, to the ma.s.sive and impa.s.sible Montmorency Falls above the village of Beauport. Everywhere Antoine looked there were gun batteries trained on the river. There were rows upon rows of tents, even a few wigwams. "So much, mon General. Such a huge effort. Now, after they have come. And to protect La Traverse, nothing. Not even one battery on little Ile Madame."

"You forget, mon Pere," Montcalm said softly. "La Traverse was believed to be impa.s.sible."

"But you knew better, mon General."

"No, I did not. How could I contradict those who were born here in Quebec?"

"Do you deny that the little sister brought you the chart made by the Jesuit Louait? That it showed-"

Montcalm raised his hand. "I deny nothing, mon Pere. Here in this carriage there is no need to deny anything. In a more public place ... That, of course, would be different."

The two men looked at each other. Neither glance wavered. "To my face," Antoine said at last. "You are a man of incredible arrogance, Monsieur le Marquis de Montcalm. Have you no fear for your immortal soul?"

"I am, mon Pere, a man who knows the difference between spiritual realities and those of a military nature. You speak of a battery at Ile Madame. It would have been useless. Even a pair of batteries facing each other across the entry to the channel would have been useless. Forty wars.h.i.+ps would have been required to defend La Traverse. I do not have forty wars.h.i.+ps, my dear Pere Antoine, because in Versailles the lovely Pompadour does not concern herself with Canada. And the king-I apologize for offending your religious sensibilities-concerns himself with nothing except his c.o.c.k. That is the reality."

"And the souls of the heathen? Do you have no concern for the millions who thanks to you may never hear the gospel preached to them and never attain salvation? Do you realize that if-"

"I leave such things to you, mon Pere. And to le bon Dieu. Surely G.o.d is sufficiently concerned with souls not to need my poor a.s.sistance."

"You speak heresy, sir. I warn you again, you put your own soul in peril."

They had arrived at the small manor house Montcalm had made his headquarters. The carriage slowed, then stopped, and a footman appeared at the door and started to open it. The marquis waved the servant away. "I will give you one sop for your conscience, Pere Antoine, though why it should p.r.i.c.k you, I do not know. You did what you thought best, and I did likewise. We will both be judged at the appropriate time, non?"

The priest started to speak. Montcalm raised his hand. "Hear me out. I promised you a piece of information. It will do you no good with anyone in Quebec. You are already believed to be a fanatic, as you know. Vaudreuil doesn't trust you, and neither, I think, does the bishop. Roget hates you, and Bigot is barely aware of your existence. Still, for your own peace of mind, and because I am grateful for the effort you made-even if I chose not to act on it in the manner you hoped-the defenses of Quebec are without a break There is no place for Wolfe to attack us. He can sh.e.l.l, and he will. But unless we give him a battle, he cannot have one. I do not intend to give him a battle, mon Pere. When the winter comes the Admiral Saunders and the General Wolfe will go away, because if they do not they will be frozen in place in the river and we will pick them off at our leisure. With, I am sure, the a.s.sistance of those local Indians in whom our esteemed governor-general has such faith. Meanwhile the supplies of the English will be long gone, and those we do not kill will starve to death."

"But all of this could have been avoided if-"

Montcalm held up his hand. "I am not finished. I am told, mon Pere, that your concern is for the Ohio Country. Millions of heathens, you said, just waiting to be saved. I am not sure they can ever be civilized, much less made into Christians, but on the matter of the importance of the land south of us, we are in agreement. The Ohio Country and Louisiana are the future of New France on this continent. If we were to lose this realm of ice it would be unfortunate, perhaps, but not the defeat of the empire."

The marquis reached for the door of the carriage. It seemed almost too much effort. He was weary. He had made exactly this argument in doc.u.ments sent to Versailles during the winter. He had begged His Majesty for permission to withdraw from Canada and defend the Ohio forts and Louisiana, and he had been refused. The folly of that decision was already apparent, at least to him.

Amherst prepares to take Fort Carillon. If it falls-eh bien, when it falls-the English will also take Fort Niagara and then Fort St. Frederic. The entire corridor will be theirs, and I can do nothing because the chinless general has pinned me and my army here in Quebec, and I must defend this place whether or not it is worth defending. If I could have avoided this by using the map you undoubtedly stole, my fanatic Franciscan, I would have done so. It was not possible, but I can see in those half-mad eyes of yours that you will probably never believe me. So I must pull your fangs with a trifle more firmness.

"Don't bother to get out of the carriage, mon Pere. We have finished our business. I will have you driven back to the town. Please give my compliments to the delightful Soeur Stephane. Ah yes, one thing more. If you are thinking that she can corroborate your fantastic story about a map ... I will deny her as readily as I deny you. And since I have learned that her father was an English officer, I do not think she will command more trust than you will. Au revoir, mon Pere. I commend myself to your prayers."

And I, if you keep this, promise you life everlasting. In all Christendom a Poor Clare Abbess was the only woman who could speak those words to her nuns, but her legacy included another extraordinary privilege. A Poor Clare abbess could bless her community with the Sacred Host, just as a priest did.

Because, five hundred years before, Holy Mother Clare had taken it on herself to carry the Blessed Sacrament to the ramparts of a.s.sisi and repel the Saracen invaders, Mere Marie Rose was permitted to open the door of the tabernacle from the nun's side of the grille and remove the elaborate monstrance that held the large white wafer. She did so now, and turned to face her nuns. They bowed their heads. The abbess raised the monstrance above her own, then brought it down to chest height. "Au nom du Pere, et du Fils, et du-" Marie Rose stopped speaking.

Soeur Celeste waited for the s.p.a.ce of two heartbeats, then raised her head. The eyes of Dear Abbess were closed. She was motionless, holding the monstrance at her left side. She feels again the wound of love, Celeste realized. But like this, with the Holy Sacrament in her hands ... Celeste was the vicaress of the community, the second in command. It was up to her to decide what to do. Normally, when it was during the Office or some other prayer, it was simple. She led the sisters out of the choir and allowed le bon Dieu to care for the nun He so favored. But now, with the Sacred Host in her hands ... what if, overcome as she was, the grip of Mere Marie Rose gave way?

The mighty St. Lawrence was a red torrent, a river of blood. Hundreds tumbled in the rus.h.i.+ng waters, all screaming in agony and weeping with despair. And hovering above, holding the river back so it could not engulf Quebec and sweep thousands of more souls into a plunge to everlasting h.e.l.lfire, there were five nuns. "There should be six, Lord. Why only five?" Soeur Stephane was missing. She was off to one side, by herself. Very still, and her veil was crowned with a wreath of flowers. "Truth is where it is, Marie Rose, whom I have made abbess. I have given you charge over the souls of these nuns, but only to act in My name. To honor the truth I show you, not the truth you expect."

The moments went by. Mere Marie Rose did not move. Soeur Celeste was not an abbess; for her to touch the monstrance when it contained the Sacred Host was a grave sin. How much worse, though, was the thought that, entranced as she was, Mother Abbess might drop the Glory that she held. Celeste rose from her stall and approached the altar. "Ma Mere, please. You must come back to us. For at least as long as it takes to return the monstrance to the tabernacle. Mere Marie Rose, please ..."

"Blood," the abbess whispered. "A river full of blood and torment. Soeur Stephane ..."

Startled, Celeste turned to look at the youngest nun. Soeur Stephane knelt in her stall, head bowed, apparently unaware that she had anything to do with the vision of the abbess. "She is here, ma Mere, do you wish me to-"

"I wish that you would return to your stall, Soeur Celeste. What are you thinking of?" The abbess's eyes were wide open now, and she was staring at her second in command with astonishment. "You give a bad example, ma Soeur. It is against the Holy Rule."

Celeste bowed her head and in acknowledgment of the reprimand touched her heart. "I humbly confess my fault, ma Mere." She turned and went back to her stall.

Marie Rose waited until Celeste had resumed her place. "Et du Saint-Esprit," she intoned, concluding the benediction. Then she turned, replaced the monstrance in the tabernacle, and genuflected. Give me strength, Lord, she prayed. Don't let the sisters see me tremble as I walk back to my stall. A torrent of blood. And Soeur Stephane, so young to die ... Save us, Lord, we perish.

Wolfe's guns could not sh.e.l.l the town from the He d'Orleans, but he believed Quebec would be in range from the heights of Pointe-Levis on the opposite sh.o.r.e. Monckton, his senior brigadier and a Yorks.h.i.+reman accustomed to plain speech, said that couldn't be so. "If the guns could do them damage from this elbow," he bent over the map the two were studying and indicated Pointe-Levis with a blunt finger, "surely they'd have fortified it."

"Why is it, General Monckton, that if I say black, you say white?"

"Begging your pardon, General Wolfe, I do not. I merely wish to point out that-"

"That we should accept French wisdom. Which, I remind you, also said we could not navigate La Traverse, or bring anything through that was bigger than a hundred tons."

Like a rat he was, an ugly little white rat with pink eyes. G.o.d rot Cooke for ever showing them the way through that G.o.d-rotting channel, and Wolfe for being the first to support the notion. No telling him anything now. "There's not a single battery on the whole of the south sh.o.r.e, General Wolfe. Not a gun. That has to mean that the French engineers believe-"

"I do not, sir, mean to conduct this campaign according to the beliefs of the French engineers. We will take Pointe-Levis and bring up our guns."

"A man, ma Mere, at the turn." Angelique was at her most wide-eyed. "He demands to see whoever is 'in charge in this place.' I directed him to the chapel, but he refused to go."

"Yes, I expect that is so. He did not ask for me by name?" The governor-general had sent two emissaries in the past four days, and the marquis de Montcalm one. All three had been extremely respectful, however insistent.

"No, ma Mere, he asks only for a person with authority."

Marie Rose was at her writing table, preparing a testament that was to be sent back to the founding monastery in Montargis once she and all her nuns were dead. Soeur Stephane might be the first, but surely they all faced the same fate. "Tell him he must come back tomorrow. I am too busy to come to the turn just now."

Angelique did not leave. "I humbly beg, ma Mere ..."

"Oui? What is it, child?"