Shadowbrook (51 page)

“Yes, very well. I don’t want a lesson in politics. A four-pronged attack, you said. If this is one, what are the others?”

“Shirley of Massachusetts is to take two regiments and seize Fort Niagara. William Johnson is to lead his Mohawks and some colonials to Lake Champlain where they’re to take Fort St. Frédéric at Crown Point.”

Quent’s heart slammed in his chest By water Fort St. Frédéric was a three-day journey from Shadowbrook, a straight run from Lake Champlain into Bright Fish Water. “He is mad. There are settlements near both those objectives. Farms and homes and towns. It’s—” He broke off. “Sweet Jesus Christ. Duquesne, Frédéric, and Niagara. That’s three. And the fourth?”

There was a hint of bitterness in Washington’s voice. “The fourth assault’s to be made on the two French forts that guard the Chignecto Isthmus up in Nova Scotia. Beauséjour and Gaspareau. And there’s something else. Apparently the French are sending reinforcements to Québec and London has dispatched a fleet to intercept them.”

“They are all mad,” Quent said again. “Look at what’s happening right here. The column is so strung out it—”

“Gentleman, I take it you are both well? Not stopping here because of any illness, are you? If I can be of assistance …”

The English doctor appeared, the one Braddock kept in tow to look after the whores and hopefully keep his men from being laid low by the various diseases that accompanied fucking. “We’re fine, Dr. Walton,” Washington replied. “Thank you for your concern, but it’s not warranted.”

“Damned hot though, isn’t it?” Xavier Walton mopped his face with a red bandanna that had been given him some months back by the first woman he’d treated. He’d painted her privates with a tincture of mercury and bled her from the thigh—all the while saying Paters in his head, reminding himself as well as the Lord that he was vowed to chastity, and trying to avert his eyes while still doing his duty. The bandanna was the brightest thing he’d ever owned. These days he wore a black jacket and black breeches. Had he been revealed as a Catholic priest, a Jesuit, no doubt Braddock would hang him as the spy he was. The thought was seductive.

I pray You will grant me martyrdom, Lord. But I will not take it unless you send it. Meanwhile I will do everything I can to be obedient to the command of my superior. “Hotter than any place in England, that’s for sure,” Xavier murmured.

“Hotter than hell,” Quent said. “And it will get hotter. That’s the one thing you can rely on, Doctor. Here in the Ohio Country it always gets hotter.”

A four-pronged attack. Three of them to take place in heavily settled locations. Damn you to everlasting hell, Braddock. You’re not just an arrogant bastard, you’re stark raving mad.

A week later Braddock’s army had gone no more than forty leagues. A brave, fully outfitted and painted for war, could run almost that far through the forest two days. “We are to be divided,” Washington told Quent. He did not add that it had been his idea. “A third of the force is to stay behind with the heavy baggage. The rest will be what the General calls a flying column, and push on ahead.”

“The women should stay behind as well.”

“Some will,” Washington agreed. “The officer’s wives and a few of the older ones who might not keep up. The youngest and strongest laundresses are to be part of the advance column.”

“No,” Quent said. “They are in greater peril.”

“The French troops won’t attack women.”

“I’m not thinking about the French.”

“The Indians?” Washington asked.

Quent nodded. “Any that look as if they won’t survive a forced march back to the braves’ home villages will be killed, the others captured.”

Washington looked at him curiously. “I thought you approved of the Indian way of life?”

“I do. But I’m not a captured white woman who never chose it.”

The colonel nodded. “Very well, I’ll tell the General what you’ve said. But I don’t know that he’ll agree. He doesn’t think an army can function without its laundresses.”

Nor, in Braddock’s opinion, could it move through the forest in a way that took any notice of the nature of the terrain. The flying column was ordered to maintain army discipline. The officers were on horseback, the troops, scarlet-coated regulars and blue-uniformed Virginians alike, went on foot, marching in columns of four. Behind them came the light cavalry and the horse-drawn artillery. Thirty women and their assorted baggage brought up the rear. Neat. Precise. As if they moved through the settled farmlands of Europe, not the American wilderness.

“He is insane, this war sachem.” Scarouady and seven of his Iroquois braves had decided to rejoin the campaign. They went ahead with Quent and Croghan and a few other scouts. “They are asking to be slaughtered. You know this is true, Uko Nyakwai.”

Quent did know it, but he had yet to convince General Braddock.

In Canada, nearly four hundred leagues to the north, Beauséjour sat on the top of a hill facing the Missaquash marsh. It was a heavily garrisoned five-sided fort, with earthen ramparts ten feet high and emplacements for two dozen cannon, even a mortar. It should have been impregnable.

Except that on Sunday, the thirteenth of June, after the English forces had been more or less besieging the fort for almost two weeks, the cook realized he had waited too long to prepare the chickens that had been smuggled in five days before from a
habitant’s
farm. The poultry smelled, but there was no other meat for the commandant’s mess. The cook prepared a strong sauce of vinegar and pounded almonds and a king’s ransom in crushed black pepper, and masked the taste of the bad chicken so well that he received a number of compliments on the quality of the dish. Even the commander, Duchambon de Vergor, went out of his way to say how much he had enjoyed the meal.

At dawn on Monday, when an English shell fell on the latrine reserved for the use of the officers, six of them were straddling the holes and were immediately killed. Vergor, his own gut writhing with cramps caused by the bad chicken, considered his position. He had been put in command by the man in charge of procurement for all Canada, Intendant Bigot. Vergor knew a great deal about siphoning off supplies so they could be sold to enrich himself and his patron, but very little about war. Without his officers Vergor was helpless. He ordered a white flag to be raised and surrendered Beauséjour, and for all intents and purposes the whole of French-controlled l’Acadie. One of General Braddock’s prongs had been driven home.

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 23, 1755
QUÉBEC UPPER TOWN

The little nun lifted her skirts as she climbed the steep hill. Cormac could see that she wore sandals and no hose. It was warm enough now, even in Québec, the river was free of ice and the air smelled of summer. He had been watching the nun since she left her monastery in the Lower Town, but he had yet to catch sight of her from the front. He stayed well back, shadowing the woman not because he was interested in her, but because he was following the Franciscan priest, Père Antoine, who was apparently following the nun.

If the Franciscan was a spy, as the Jesuit had suggested, he wasn’t very good at it. The nun apparently hadn’t spotted him, but anyone else would do so easily. Most
Cmokmanuk
were clumsy at such tasks. Not Quent, but he wasn’t like most
Cmokmanuk.
The rest—The nun stopped halfway up the hill.

Nicole paused at the heavy iron gates in front of the château of His Excellency,
the Bishop of New France. There was a rope hanging from a bell suspended from one of the gateposts. She could barely see it through the folds of the white veil pulled forward to cover her face. It was not necessary inside the cloister, only now when she had been sent into the street. “You must not be seen unveiled,” Mère Marie Rose had said. “Never. Do you understand, Soeur Stephane?”

“Oui, ma Mère.
I understand.”

“I would not do this if it were not that the bishop himself requested it. His Excellency makes a special novena to Our Lady of Victory, for the Ohio Country, and he has decided that the altar breads he consecrates with his own hands, at his private Mass, are to be made only by the Poor Clares.” The abbess could not keep the pride from her voice. “It is a great honor, Soeur Stephane. And only you can go. I have spoken with Père Antoine. It is not a violation of the Holy Rule since you have not yet made your vows.”

Normally there was an extern sister, usually illiterate and unable to read the Latin prayers, who was a member of the order but not cloistered, who could be sent on errands outside the monastery walls. The extern who had come with Mère Marie Rose died soon after they arrived. So now there was only Nicole.

“If Père Antoine gives his permission, it can be no sin,” she had told the abbess.

“None at all,” Mère Marie Rose agreed. “The altar breads are to be delivered three times a week. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Promptly at the hour of noon.”

“But,
ma Mère,”
the words had tumbled out of her. Nicole had not thought about how they would sound, until it was too late to get them back. “I will miss three dinners.” Already the gray habit that had fitted her perfectly two months earlier needed to be carefully folded at the waist before she could tie it with the Franciscan cord. Otherwise it constantly worked its way free and dragged on the floor, a sin against the Holy Rule.

“You think too much about food, my daughter,” the abbess scolded. “You will beg for your dinner today in penance.”

“Oui, ma Mère.”

“And you should know that we will save your dinners for you on the days when you must go to the château, child. Do you not think that we have always your best interests at heart?”

Forgive me,
mon Dieu,
Nicole prayed as she waited for someone to come to the gate. I have sworn to trust Mère Marie Rose as my own mother. But oh, Ste. Vierge, can you please see that my dearest mother after you and my own darling maman saves me a bit of bread and a little glass of wine as well? She had never thought herself a glutton, but she was always hungry in this place. At least now that it was June it was warmer and she did not so much mind not having a blanket at night.

A footman in the white and gold livery of the bishop’s household came to the gate.
“Oui?”

“I have the altar breads from the Poor Clares. For His Excellency to offer Holy Mass.”

“Ah, oui, bien sûr. Merci, ma Soeur.”

It was the first time anyone had ever addressed her so. The nuns called the abbess ma
Mére,
and each other by the names they had been given in religion. Nicole felt a little prickle of pride. After everything, in spite of all the difficulties, I have kept my word,
mon Dieu.
I have become a Poor Clare and I will do penance for the rest of my life. She passed the small box through the bars of the gates and the footman took it. Time to go home, back to the monastery, and eat her cold dinner. She turned away from the gate, giving the skirt of the habit a little unconscious flick to keep it from tripping her up.

Cormac’s mouth fell open in surprise. He knew that gesture. No wonder he had thought the small figure somehow familiar. It was Nicole Crane hidden beneath that all-covering white veil and that rough brown gown.
Ayi!
Maybe Quent was in Québec as well. She couldn’t have come alone.

Nicole walked quickly, head down, inviting greetings from no one; passersby moved out of her way, offering her the deference of space. If Corm approached her he would be obvious, however careful he was. Still more daunting was the presence of the priest. Corm was in a doorway thirty strides from the gates of the bishop’s château, completely hidden from view; Père Antoine was behind a tree directly across from the gates. Had she been less disciplined about keeping her head down and concentrating only on the hands folded at her waist, Nicole must surely have seen him.

She made her way down the hill, unaware of the two men following her. Then, in the Lower Town, the priest went one way and Nicole another. Corm hesitated only a moment before following not Père Antoine, but Nicole. For a few seconds he thought he’d been exceptionally fortunate. There was no one in the narrow, cobbled alley she turned into. He considered calling her name, but it was too dangerous. The business that had brought him to Québec was private. Corm strode forward, intending to catch up with her. He was still ten strides away when she abruptly opened a door and slipped inside.