Shadowbrook (4 page)

The man who spoke lay on the ground beside the rock that a few minutes before had provided the lone guard with a seat. Jumonville was clutching the bloody pulp that had once been his left thigh,
“Je regrette, Monsieur le Colonel, ce n’est pas possible de me mettre debout”

“Do you speak English, sir?”

“
Je regrette encore, Colonel Washington.
A few words only. Not enough.” Jumonville turned his head toward the group of French soldiers the Americans had disarmed and were herding into the far corner of the encampment. “Sisson!” He hissed the name because he didn’t have the strength to shout it.

A Frenchman, civilian by the look of him, murmured something to one of the American soldiers and stepped away from the throng of prisoners. “I am Henri Sisson, Monsieur le Colonel Washington. I am the translator official of this party.” He approached the two Americans and the wounded Jumonville and bowed stiffly. Washington bowed back. Jumonville spoke a few quick words of French. Sisson translated. “There is a correspondence for you on the person of my commander. It is his wish that I to you present it. I am permitted?”

Washington nodded. Quent cocked his gun. Sisson dropped to his knees beside the wounded Jumonville, put his hand in the inside pocket of the Frenchman’s jacket, withdrew a stack of correspondence, and held it out “For you, Monsieur le Colonel.”

Washington took the letters and opened the one on top. “This is in French. I do not trust myself to read accurately in that language. Hale, you speak French, do you not?”

“Some. I probably don’t read it any better than you do.”

Jumonville appeared to have picked up the drift of the exchange. He said
something to Sisson, his voice so faint the translator had to bend close to hear. “My commander wishes me to tell you that the message of the worthy correspondence is that this is French territory, and it has come to our attention that you are erecting a fortification in the place of the river joining known as the Forks, on the flatland called Great Meadows.”

Jumonville spoke again. The words came hard. Blood spurted from his wound.

“It is the duty of my commander,” Sisson spoke quickly, conveying the wounded man’s urgency, “to inform you that His Majesty Louis XV forbids you to continue building this fortification.”

Washington began an indignant reply. Quent interrupted, speaking directly to Sisson. “Tell him I can tourniquet that leg and stop the bleeding. Keep him alive long enough to continue the argument.”

Sisson translated once more, then bent his head to hear the whispered response. “My commander says he would be in your debt, monsieur.”

Quent looked to Washington, got the nod, and knelt beside the wounded French Lieutenant. “Have to rip up your jacket to make a tourniquet. Unless of course”—he looked at Sisson—“that young girl I saw a while back would care to contribute a petticoat to the effort.”

“Mademoiselle Nicole is—”

“Is right here, messieurs. And happy to be of assistance.”

Tiny, yes, but older than he’d first thought, eighteen, maybe nineteen. And beautiful, with a few dark curls showing below her mobcap, enormous pansy-colored eyes, and skin like thick cream. Cormac Shea stepped forward when she did, Quent noted, and he didn’t have his long rifle any longer. One of the Virginia soldiers had claimed it along with the rest of the French arms. Now why had Corm Shea allowed a wet-behind-the-ears excuse for a soldier to take away his gun? Because he wasn’t ready to leave the scene of the battle, of course. Or the side of the exquisite little creature Sisson had called Mademoiselle Nicole. Quent looked from her to the other woodsman. For the briefest of moments Cormac looked back. Then they ignored each other.

None of the men ignored Nicole as she stepped out of her petticoat, though it didn’t do them much good. She turned her back to the men and managed to get the thing off without showing so much as a glimpse of ankle. She ripped a strip from the waistband and handed it to Quent. It was still warm from her body. “Will this suit your purpose?”

“Admirably, Mademoiselle.” The pale blue eyes looked her up and down with no attempt to conceal their admiration, then turned to the task he’d set himself.

Jumonville was still trying to stanch the flow of blood from his thigh with his fingers. Quent gently pushed his hand away, then applied the tourniquet, slipping
a sturdy twig into the knot. There was full daylight now, and the smoke of the brief battle was entirely gone. No comfort in the feel of the rising sun on the back of his neck, or in the easy victory, though he wasn’t sure why.

Quent raised his head while his hands went on tightening the tourniquet. He could see all the way across the glen to where Tanaghrisson and his dozen warriors waited. Sweet Jesus, something was definitely wrong. He could almost smell their hatred. And their impatience.

The tourniquet was doing its job; The blood had stopped pumping from Jumonville’s thigh. Quent got up. Without moving his head he turned his glance from the Indians to Cormac Shea, still standing beside the woman. Quent could see the scar, a white streak that ran from Cormac’s forehead to his chin and looked like war paint against his tanned skin. Quent again felt his grip on the dirk, then the surge of hot blood spurting over his fingers. They’d been boys, but each in the clutch of a man’s hatred. Twenty years and he could still feel the rage. The eyes of the two men met and held a smoldering glance for perhaps a second. Then both turned away.

“Let’s go over there,” Quent said to Washington. He gestured to the opposite side of the glen from where the Indians were gathered. “We’ll take a look at that letter of yours.” They walked away from Jumonville, over to the Virginia soldiers and the twenty-one French prisoners they’d marshaled into a tight group.

Nicole began tearing what remained of her petticoat into strips that could serve as bandages.

Shea took hold of her arm and tugged her after Hale and Washington.
“Pas maintenant,”
he said quietly.

“
Mais c’est nécessaire.
I would like to help the others.”

“Pas maintenant.”
Shea was more insistent this time, and he tightened his hold on her arm. Nicole followed him because she had no choice.

Washington was inspecting the letter; he looked up when Shea and the woman reached his side. “Perhaps you can help, Mademoiselle. You are, I suspect, fluent in both French and English. This word”—a long finger tapped the page—“I take it to mean ‘defend’ and so does Mr. Sisson here. But Hale says—”

He never finished the thought. There was a blood-chilling yell and Tanaghrisson and his dozen Mingo braves erupted into the center of the glen, whooping and hollering and swinging their tomahawks above their heads.

Nicole gasped. “No! I cannot believe … What are they doing?”

“Exactly what you’d expect snakes to do,” Quent said softly.

Tanaghrisson and his braves were systematically slaughtering the wounded, then flipping them on their bellies, making a shallow cut from ear to ear across the back of the neck, and peeling off their scalps. There were cries of outrage from
the French prisoners. Cormac was silent. So was Quent. Washington was the man in charge. It was up to him.

The young lieutenant colonel opened his mouth, but no sound came. He half-raised one arm but let it fall instantly. The rampaging Iroquois dominated the glen and everyone in it by the sheer force of their blood lust.

By Quent’s reckoning it took less than two minutes for the Indians to massacre and scalp the wounded French soldiers. All except Jumonville.

Tanaghrisson’s bare tattooed chest was spattered with blood, gore, and bits of bone. He stood for a moment in the sunlit glen and lifted his face to the heavens, then went to the French commander and knelt beside him. He raised his tomahawk.
“Tu n’es pas encore mort, mon père.”
The tomahawk came down and sliced off the top of Jumonville’s head. Tanaghrisson plunged both his hands into the open skull and pulled out the gray matter. Then, standing so that all could see, he rubbed his palms together, washing them in the Frenchman’s brains.

The whooping and screaming began again; the kill hunger of the Mingos still wasn’t satisfied. A brave lopped off what remained of Jumonville’s head and stuck it atop a pole. The others began hacking apart the dead bodies.

The soldiers, French and American, stared in stunned silence at the butchery. Still Washington said nothing. Quent looked for the girl. She had turned away and was retching into the bushes. He flashed another quick look at Cormac, who moved closer to Nicole. Quent took a few steps to his left, placing himself between the unarmed pair and the colonial soldiers.

The boy who had taken Cormac’s long gun had it slung over his shoulder. He had his own musket held at the ready, waiting for a command to fire and put an end to the carnage taking place a few feet away. Washington remained as stiff and as silent as a statue.

Quent reached behind for his tiny dirk, palmed it, and moved closer. One deft stroke of the razor-sharp edge sliced through the long gun’s leather carrying thong. Quent caught the weapon before it hit the ground and tossed it to Cormac. The Canadian snatched it one-handed out of the air. The young soldier felt the loss of his captured prize. He turned his head. “What …”

“Pay attention to your duty, lad,” Quent said sternly. “Colonel Washington, hadn’t you better … ?”

“Yes, yes …” The lieutenant colonel of the Virginia Regiment shuddered, as if he’d been bewitched and only just shaken off the spell. “Stop!” he screamed. “Stop or we’ll open fire!”

Tanaghrisson looked up and saw the eight muskets pointing at him and his braves. He raised his hand. Instantly the Indians stopped their butchery and
backed away. The soldiers stepped forward purposefully, as if it were not too late for them to do anything useful.

The two woodsmen slipped silently into the depths of the forest, Nicole between them. The first time she stumbled Quent picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. Then he and Cormac broke into a trot.

It was ten minutes before they came to a clearing and stopped. Quent set the young woman on the ground and turned away without a word. The two men approached each other, clasped their left hands, and held them aloft.
“Nekane,”
Quent said. The word meant “little brother” in the Potawatomi language.

“Sizé,”
Cormac said. Elder brother.
“Ahaw nikan.”
My spirit greets you.

“Bozho nikan”
And mine you.

Nicole, still dazed and shivering with the horror of what she’d witnessed, huddled where Quent had left her, understanding nothing.

THE OHIO COUNTRY
was mostly dense virgin forest, mixed hardwoods and conifers, but the clearing was a small bit of natural upland where the trees had thinned sufficiently to allow dappled sunshine to filter through. Quent and Corm slaked their thirst in the icy water of a rushing stream, then stood ankle deep in daisies and buttercups and let the early morning sun dry the sweat of their run. Nicole was still where Quent had left her, sitting on the ground. Her arms were wrapped around her bent legs, and her face was pressed against her knees.

Quent took a tin canteen from his belt and filled it from the stream, then carried it to the girl. She drank without looking at him and returned the empty canteen without a word of thanks.

“You under an obligation to go back to those colonials?” Cormac asked.

“Not really. Our arrangement’s on a week-by-week basis, and the week ends tomorrow. Besides, Washington’s done what he set out to do. He’ll turn around and head back to the Forks. Tanaghrisson’s sure to send a brave to show them the way.”

“Washington—that the young officer who was in charge?”

“Yes.”

“He appears to need a lot of showing the way.”

“This is his first command. Got some growing up to do, but I reckon he’ll do it fairly soon. The Ohio Country ages green wood pretty fast.” Quent looked more closely at Cormac. “I said I wasn’t obligated to return to him. I’m not, unless … you figure Washington and his farmers will make it back to Great Meadows without any more trouble?”

“None I’m aware of,” Cormac said. “Far as I know, it was exactly what it looked like, a sortie to see what was happening at the Forks and suggest it better be stopped.”

“And that’s not your lookout? You don’t have to report back to anyone?”

Cormac grinned. “I haven’t joined the French army, if that’s what you’re asking. I’ve a duty, but it’s not to them.”

Quent saw Corm glance at the woman. She was still resting her head on her knees. “A duty to her?” he asked.

“Not the way I think you mean. Leave it for now. I’ll explain later.”

Quent nodded agreement. “Fine. So what are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.”

“I thought that might be the case. That’s why I let you know I was close by.” The call of the northern loon had been their private signal since boyhood. “But it doesn’t explain why.”

“Because Miss Lorene asked me to.”

Quent nodded. The great shame in Lorene Devrey Hale’s life had been having her husband bed his Potawatomi squaw under the same roof that sheltered his wife and children. But the way it had worked out, Lorene and the squaw’s son were devoted to each other. He unslung his rifle and began polishing the barrel with his sleeve. “Pity my mother sent you all this way for nothing. I’ve said everything I had to say to John. There’s no need for any further discussion.”

“I wouldn’t have come if it was just about making peace between you and your brother.”

“Ahaw.”
Somehow the Potawatomi word for “yes” seemed stronger. “You would. You’d go anywhere and do anything, as long as it was my mother did the asking.”

Cormac shook his head. “John is a vicious fool and he’s set to ruin Shadowbrook. I think that’s something you ought to go back and fix, but it’s not why I’m here.”

Quent shrugged. “My father’s made it clear Shadowbrook’s not my lookout anymore. John’s the eldest. The house, the land, everything goes to him.”

“Quent, listen …”

Cormac’s tone had changed. Quent stopped rubbing the gun’s brass and looked up. “There’s something behind your teeth. You’d best spit it out.”