Shadowbrook (68 page)

Hamish stared at the wash of moonlight on the water and hurriedly blessed
himself, trying to hold back the vomit his churning stomach wanted to expel. God’s truth, he’d rather a thousand times face another Culloden Moor than what he was looking at.

The wee lass sucked in her breath. Hamish put his arm around her again, more for comfort than capture this time. The wind that blew away the clouds had stirred ruffles of whitecaps on the lake, but they were no deterrent to the massed canoes floating toward the fort, each one filled with naked savages painted for war. Mother o’ Heaven, there were Indians as far as he could see. He’d heard it said there were two thousand o’ them gathered at Fort Carillon t’other end of the lake. Sure to Almighty God, every one was on Bright Fish Water this night.

The bateaux of the French garrison came into view behind the canoes, some moved by paddles, some by sail;, many roped together for strength and stability. They rode low in the water, almost sinking beneath their cargo of heavy siege guns and hundreds of uniformed French regulars. Hamish tried to count the total number of craft and gave up when he passed two hundred and fifty. Since war was declared in May of ‘56, the French and their Indian allies had won nearly every battle. The Sassenachs werena likely to reverse the trend this time. They were facing an armada.

The fleet floated toward the fort, then halted and held steady just out of cannon range. It was a maneuver of breathtaking skill, as if a wave had rippled backward and been arrested before the crest. Hamish glanced at the fort. He detected no motion, but their lookouts would have seen what was coming and by now the entire garrison would be under battle alarm. Bloody heretics they were; still, it was hard not to feel some pity. He knew there to be twenty-five hundred men in Fort William Henry. Redcoats—the Thirty-fifth Foot, whose officers had brought their families, maybe a hundred women and children—as well as Yorkers, and militiamen from New England and New Jersey. Some forty rangers as well; woodsmen sent to scout, and to teach the redcoats a trick or two about fighting in the wilderness. God help them all, the force on the lake had to be at least three times that number.

The rangers must ken as well that no escape through the forest was possible, that the woods were full of Canadians and their Indian allies. The sutlers going back and forth between Albany and the fort peddling their wares, trading as much in talk as in combs and corn and musket balls, said the rangers had been sent by Quentin Hale. Hamish got the same information from Annie Crotchett. These days she sold her favors to as many redcoats as locals, given the numbers of ’em camped in the hills around the town, and just last week Annie had told him the Red Bear had been summoned to London, no less. To tell their bloody lordships how to make war like Indians, as if the Sassenachs needed any training
in savagery. The blood rose in Hamish, reminding him of his hot hatred of all things English, but it cooled when he looked from the fort to the lake. He was seeing the makings of a slaughter. Sweet Savior in Heaven, he’d not have thought there could be so many painted barbarians in one place.

Four piercing notes from a horn rolled up the hills one side o’ the water and down the other. The strangeness o’ the thing made drops o’ cold sweat form on his skin. A French horn in these American woods. He half expected the skirl o’ the pipes next. The horn sounded a second time. In response the Indians in the canoes began beating their drums and whooping and screaming. Those in the forest behind the fort replied with shouts and drums of their own.

Hamish put his hand on the lass’s shoulder. Her whole body heaved with every breath she drew, but she made no sound and it was plain she dinna mean to bolt God alone knew how she’d got here through a forest bristling with white men and red, all intent on dealing death, but it was fitting that it was he who’d caught her, not some howling savage. The gel was bound to be Shadowbrook’s property. And Shadowbrook, he reminded himself, magnificently, unbelievingly, was his. Pinned between two halves of a war he might be, but by Christ Almighty, he was at last the laird. And this wee lass, like everything else on the Hale Patent, belonged to him. Now all he had to do was stay alive to claim his prize.

THURSDAY, AUGUST 9, 1757
FORT WILLIAM HENRY

Days and nights filled with the scream of cannon fire and musket fire and Indian whoops and curses hurled in French and English, And death.

In all of the civilized world it was agreed that however badly the defenders were outnumbered, as long as a fort’s walls and bastions were intact, honorable surrender was not possible. By the time the sun came up on the tenth day of the siege, the top of the bastions of Fort William Henry, the ones facing the French guns, had been entirely shot away.

At noon that day the front gate of the fort opened and a white flag was raised. A drummer beating a solemn tattoo marched ahead of a red-coated lieutenant colonel on horseback A musket ball had shattered the Englishman’s left foot. Despite that, he was the best man for the job. His French was flawless.

Montcalm’s tent was a large marquee of three poles, with walls that reached above a tall man’s shoulders and elegant campaign furniture. The general was joined by half a dozen of his most senior officers, five Indians in the full battle regalia—warbonnets and the like—that marked them as chiefs, and a handfid of translators. In deference to the wound of the Englishman, everyone sat. There
were not enough of the hastily unfolded leather-covered chairs to accommodate all. The Indians squatted at the fringes of the meeting.

The Englishman’s name was Young. He and Montcalm did the talking. Quiet, courteous speech, no need for bluster, because both men knew the battle was over and the English had lost. Fort William Henry had fewer than seven hundred soldiers fit for duty. Three hundred had been killed since the engagement began, the rest had fallen to an epidemic of smallpox raging since mid-July. All the English cannon and most of their mortars had burst from overuse or been disabled by shot, while the whole of Montcalm’s thirty-one cannon and fifteen mortars and howitzers were intact, now entrenched, and ready to open fire together. Up to now only some of the guns had been in action, and that portion of the French firepower had been almost more than the English could resist. Facing the entire battery meant surrender was the only option. That’s what had decided the vote taken among the fort’s officers earlier that morning.

The marquis de Montcalm had no interest in prisoners. The harvest had been poor in Canada this year and the year before, and the policies of Intendant Bigot and his
grande sociéty
had made a bad situation horrendous. Montcalm had barely enough food to feed his own men and dole out a bit to the Indians. “You have fought bravely, monsieur. I offer you the honors of war and safe passage to Fort Edward.” Young nodded in acknowledgment of Montcalm’s compliment. “In return,” the Frenchman continued, “for eighteen months parole.”

Generous terms. The defenders of Fort William Henry would be allowed to leave with their colors flying and in possession of their small arms and their personal effects. For their part, the British and the colonials must give their solemn word not to fight against the French for a year and a half. “We will take the fort at once,” Montcalm continued. “Your garrison will go over the ravine to the entrenched camp and spend the night there. At first light tomorrow a detachment of my soldiers will escort you to Fort Edward.”

It was a journey of some three leagues. “We have many sick,” Young explained. “They are not fit to cross from the fort to the camp. The journey to Fort Edward would be impossible.”

“
Pas de probleme, Monsieur le Colonel,
they may stay where they are. We will look after your sick and wounded and send them to you as soon as they have recovered. Now, there is as well the matter of French and Canadian prisoners taken by you since the start of the war. They are to be returned to us.”

“
D’accord, mon Général. Mais
…” Young shot a quick look at the Indians.

Montcalm followed his glance and nodded. He summoned three of the translators and spoke to them quickly, repeating the terms of the surrender. In turn, the translators, two Canadians and one Indian, explained them to each of the chiefs in his own language.

Alhanase the Huron spoke French and did not require a translation. Still he listened carefully in case he had misunderstood what he’d heard earlier. He had not. He rose. The other chiefs did the same.

“They understand?” Montcalm asked anxiously. “They agree?”

“They understand perfectly,” one of the translators assured him.

“And agree,” Montcalm said again.

This time it was Alhanase rather than one of the translators who replied.
“Il a parlé, Onontio.”
Onontio has spoken. “
Il a arrangé les choses àla Cmokmanuk.
He has arranged things the
Cmokmanuk
way.
“Nous comprenons.”
We understand.

Alhanase and the other chiefs knew their young braves would not be so accepting of this outrage. They had fought well, for nothing but meager rations and a few gifts given when they had first agreed to once more take up the tomahawk on behalf of Onontio. Now the enemy was beaten, yet Onontio’s warrior sons were being denied the fruits of their victory. They would have no plunder, no scalps, the fat of their enemies would not fill their empty bellies, and worst of all, they would have no captives to bring home to replace the many who had died. A father—Onontio—did not behave in such a manner.

As arranged, every member of the English garrison able to walk or ride left the fort a few hours after the terms of the surrender were concluded. They filed out under the gaze of restless braves, who mocked and taunted them, making threatening gestures that the English pretended to ignore. A broad ravine separated the fort and the camp where they were to spend the night. The moment they crossed it a number of braves rushed into the fort. The rangers had made sure to bury whatever rum the garrison didn’t take with them, but the Indians found it, and drank it, complaining mightily at how little plunder was to be had in the all-but-empty fort. Only one thing worth having had been left behind.

The braves made their way to the infirmary and slaughtered and scalped the wounded. There were some protests, but the Canadians who were supposed to be caring for the sick mostly stood back and watched.

Just before sundown more bands of braves entered the camp on Mount Titcomb, many more than the French regulars who stood guard duty. “Stave the kegs. Hurry,” someone murmured. The word was passed and holes were bashed in the eleven barrels of rum the English had brought with them, the contents allowed to soak into the ground. The
Anishinabeg
—Potawatomi and Nipissing and Ottawa and Huron—did not need more drink. Their blood was heated with rage that having accomplished so much, they were to be repaid with so little. For a time they prowled the camp, demanding clothes and jewelry and making threatening gestures. They paid particular attention to the women, playing with their long hair as if reminding them of the possibility they could lose it. Eventually the French guards turned them out.

Alhanase the Huron stood apart and watched. The medicine bag that hung round his neck contained a rare thing, a single blue-black Súki bead carved with a spider, ancient and beautiful. A reminder of the old days, of a time when the
Anishinabeg
lived alone and made both war and peace in their own fashion. There were some Ottawa here, but only a few, and those not led by Pontiac. Perhaps the powerful Ottawa war chief was correct. Perhaps separation could bring the old days back Perhaps if the English were allowed to win they would divide the earth of this place they called the New World between themselves and the Real People. Like the others, Alhanase had trusted the French, accepted their war belt, but Onontio was not a father if he asked his sons to fight and die and get nothing in return. Perhaps this was to be the last battle.

Even so, Alhanase knew, it was not yet over.

At dawn a detachment of three hundred French soldiers led the Englilsh down the road toward Fort Edward. The redcoats and the colonial militia marched behind them. The defeated men carried their muskets, but in accordance with the terms of the surrender no ammunition and no bayonets. The women and children were in the rear of the long line, at least a league behind the armed French who might protect them.

Hamish and Taba watched from their hidden grotto, their stomachs cramping with hunger. Their combined jerky and biscuits had run out three days earlier. Hamish’s canteen had been dry still longer. The Scot had managed to coUect a bit of rainwater during a night’s downpour, and two cabbages and four ears of maize from the fort’s garden on the one foray he’d risked. They’d survived on that, and on luck Last night a painted Indian had found the entrance to their hiding place. A sudden darkening of the light was all the warning Hamish had. Hamish figured it to have been the brave’s surprise at discovering the cave that gave him time to plunge his dirk into the Indian’s throat before he could shout. He’d pidled the corpse the rest of the way into the grotto so it would not be found. Sharing the cave with a dead body gave him and Taba less room than they’d had before, but he knew it was better than what waited for them if they tried to get away. They would be butchered alive, like the Sassenachs Hamish was watching die on the road below.

Could be hunger had made him light-headed. Maybe that’s why the sight of the Indians attacking the unarmed English seemed like a dream. Hamish watched it without any real feeling, as if it were a mummery at a summer fair in the Highlands when he was a lad.

The women and children were dealt with first. They were guarded only by a few Canadians who stood by and did nothing while young wives in their prime were captured and carried off into the forest, and older ones were tomahawked and scalped. Babes and the very young were hacked apart and thrown aside; only
the older ones were taken alive. From where he watched the Scot could see their mouths open, but it seemed to him he could not hear the screams. Maybe because he did not want to hear them.