Shadowbrook (71 page)

Nicole could see that what she had brought the general was a drawing, but from where she sat, not what kind. Nor could she imagine why any drawing would be the key to the salvation of a million souls. She did not wish to know. It was not her place or her responsibility.
Mon Dieu,
I wish only to return to my cloister. But did she? Sitting here with the taste of that exquisite wine still in her mouth, was she not so tempted never to return that the temptation, even if resisted, was itself a sin?

General Montcalm rang the bell on his desk. The footman arrived. Something had changed. Nicole knew it. She could tell that the footman did as well, simply by the way he stood as he waited for instructions. “Take the good nun downstairs and put her in a carriage. Send my compliments to the Grey Nuns, along with two bottles of the Lafite.
Adieu, ma Soeur. Merci.
”

He did not look at her when he said goodbye. And he had forgotten about the sugared Montargis almonds for the Grey Nuns, or that he was going to go with her to their convent. Nicole knew how thrilled the sisters would have been to have such a visit. Too bad.
“Adieu, mon Général Je vous remercie.”

She started to follow the footman out of the room. Montcalm’s voice stopped her. “Soeur Stephane, a moment longer.” Nicole turned to look at him.
“S’il vous plaît, ma Soeur …”
he added in a whisper.

She had to go closer to the desk to hear him.
“Oui, mon Général?”

He was staring not at her but at the thing she had brought him. It was a map, a nautical chart of some sort. She could not help but recognize such things; she was a child of the military, after all. Nicole wanted to squeeze her eyes shut. I do not wish to know what it is that has so changed the mood of this powerful man,
mon
Dieu,
Or why it is so important that Père Antoine and Mother Abbess sent me out of the cloister and away from my Vows. Do not ask me to know such things.

“You will not forget to pray for me, Soeur Stephane?”

“Never. You have my word.”

Montcalm nodded and made a gesture of dismissal, and Nicole followed the footman out the door. In the carriage she busied herself telling her beads. She refused to think about the fact that for some reason best known to himself, Père Antoine had sent to General Montcalm as a matter of the greatest urgency a chart of the waters around Québec Lower Town.

FRIDAY, AUGUST 31, 1757
THE HALIFAX CITADEL IN NOVA SCOTIA

Much had changed in l’Acadie. Most of the Acadians were gone; English land was no longer crawling with French spies and sympathizers. But much was the same. The blasted infernal miserable weather was as dreadful as Lord Loudoun had been told while still in London. “The weather might play you havoc, John. But we’re quite sure you’ll prevail.”

John Campbell, earl of Loudoun, the man sent to replace General Braddock and take charge of the war, was less sure. Fog for the entire month he’d been here, and before that his great invasion fleet, more than a hundred ships under sail and carrying six thousand troops, had sat in New York Harbor waiting for its naval escort. He’d left without the escort in the end, though the ships had caught up with them when they were halfway to Halifax, and they’d arrived without incident. Didn’t make any difference. More bloody waiting, that’s all; this time for the navy reconnaissance ships that were to tell him what exactly he faced farther north at Louisbourg.

Sweet Christ, not more than he could handle, he hoped. Louisbourg was the object of the exercise, the first stone that must fall if Canada was to be taken. A hundred nights running he’d studied the situation—more, if he counted the time in London doing the planning. Built on a tongue of land between Cape Breton and the open Atlantic, Louisbourg faced a sea that boiled like a cauldron where it met an iron coast, continually white with foam and shooting jets of spray that disappeared into a mist that never entirely went away. And if the natural conditions weren’t miserable enough, there was the wall. More than five leagues of wall. Surrounding a town that housed four thousand people and was garrisoned with three battalions of French regulars, one of the poxed
Volontaires Etrangers
—the formidable Canadian troops—two companies of artillery, and a varying number of woodsmen.

“In all, some three thousand troops,” Admiral Holburne said. “Besides officers, of course.” Holburne and Loudoun sat across from each other at the dining table in the governor’s mansion, which Loudoun had commandeered on his arrival.

“Of course.” Loudoun’s stomach growled. Sweet Christ, he hadn’t waited this long only to be told what he already knew: the size of the garrison had not changed. Another, louder protest from his belly. Had to be the beef at lunch. Tough as hide. And the delay, of course. More than a month lost to foul weather would turn any man’s stomach. But however long the news had taken to get here, it wasn’t bad. No major reinforcements at Louisbourg meant his force outnumbered the enemy two to one. “And in the harbor?” he asked.

Admiral Holburne did not look at him. The better part of a second bottle of Rhenish wine was gone. At the moment the naval man’s glass was empty. They were ashore in the governor’s mansion. Loudon had commandeered it upon his arrival, and in these circumstances Loudoun outranked Holburne and was host; he leaned forward and poured a refill for the admiral. “Come on, man. Might as well tell me. What’s waiting for us in the harbor?”

“Eighteen French ships of the line, fully armed. And five frigates.”

Loudoun set down the wine and stared at his guest. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He’d been told to expect three ships, maybe four, no frigates. Eighteen fully armed ships of the line. Jesus bloody Christ.

Holburne mopped his face with a linen pocket cloth. The man perspired in visible showers. Repulsive and fascinating at the same time. “We tried to prevent them getting through,” he said. “We could not. Most arrived in the past fortnight. The weather …”

Loudoun got to his feet and walked to the window. Nearly the entire French fleet had come to bulwark Louisbourg while he’d sat waiting for the British navy to pull their thumbs from their own arses. There was bright sun now. And the sky as blue as a tart’s best cloak, not a cloud to be seen. He’d been here well before the reinforcements and it availed him nothing. The weather had defeated—Perhaps not. Perhaps he was being an old woman. He spun around. “Holburne, as one military man to another, tell me what you think about the situation.”

Before today Holburne had known Loudoun only by reputation. A Scot by birth, but a Campbell, a clan that frequently sided with the crown. And look what it got them. Those the other Highlanders didn’t slaughter became earls and commanded his majesty’s forces in America. “It’s entirely your decision, milord The fleet will support you in whatever plan you follow.”

Loudoun returned to the table and leaned on it with both arms, forcing the other man to look straight at him. “Don’t mouth porridge at me, Admiral. I asked what you think. For the love of God, man, there’s no one here but the pair of us. Express yourself.”

The Scot’s face was as white as the ruffled stock below his chin. For his part Holburne knew he was the color of raw beef. Damned wine always made him hot as a whore’s tit.

“I see you’re not going to answer me, Admiral.” Loudoun straightened and reached for the bottle. Only one glass remained and he poured it for himself. “I can’t compel you. I just thought it might help to hear your—”

“There’s no hope of succeeding, milord. Not at any attempt on Louisbourg at this late season of the year.” The words were out of his mouth before he knew he was going to speak them. Cowardice, failing to do one’s utmost against the enemy, was a capital offense. It meant a firing squad. Holburne poured sweat.

Loudoun didn’t speak for long seconds; when he did, his voice was low and even. “Very well. Let me ask another question. What about Québec?”

“What about it, milord?”

“Could we take it? Bypass Louisbourg, where they expect the battle, and go straight to the heart of the matter. One devastating blow that will bring New France to its knees.” He had been toying with the idea for the last couple of days. Probably the wine talking, and his frustration at the long delay. “What about it, man? Could we take Québec?”

The admiral mopped his face. He could feel beads of sweat dripping from his nose and his chin. “Not without taking Louisbourg first, milord. And even then …”

“Yes.”

“My honest opinion, sir, as a man of the sea, is that we can never take Québec with warships. We can’t get through La Traverse, the channel that lies off—”

“I know where the bloody passage lies, Admiral.” There was a real edge to his voice now. Does the thought of any battle turn your britches brown Holburne? “But if we are never to take Québec, how are we to win this war?”

“By containing them up there, milord. By making the French withdraw to their fortress city and leave everything else to us. To do that we must take Louisbourg.”

Sensible advice and what Loudoun’s better judgment also told him. Québec was forever out of reach. Louisbourg was indispensable to victory. But nothing could change the fact that the entire campaign season had been lost to him. He pulled a square of linen from his sleeve. “Here man, use this. Your own is sodden. And thank you for your honest advice. I value it.”

“Milord, I don’t mean that I won’t—”

“Do your duty. I know that. What’s at issue here is my duty, Admiral, not yours. Thanks to your intelligence I learn that I must attempt to bring ashore on one of the most dangerous coasts on this continent nearly His Majesty’s entire regular army in America. And I must do it facing a naval force superior to that you can provide me, under constant threat of the worst weather Almighty God
has sent to plague Christendom, at a time of year when it can be counted upon to deteriorate from whatever parlous state we find it in when we arrive. It becomes rather clear put that way, doesn’t it, Admiral?”

Holburne nodded.

Loudoun drank the last of the Rhenish and went to the door. Two heavily armed marines waited in the hall. “You there, find Captain James and tell him I want him. Immediately.”

When the door was again closed, Holburne asked: “May I know your decision, mord?”

“You may. I shall tell James to prepare the fleet to sail.”

“For Louisbourg?”

“No, of course not for Louisbourg. You are entirely correct, sir; it is far too late to undertake a campaign against Louisbourg. We shall return to the godforsaken province of New York in the stubborn and ungrateful and barbaric American colonies. God alone knows what we’ll find when we get there, but it can’t be any worse that what we’re leaving behind.”

LEAF FALLING MOON, THE NINTH SUN THE VILLAGE OF SINGING SNOW

“We have waited long to see you, my bridge person son.”

“I have been far away, Father. It took time to return to the home of my heart.”

Bishkek made a sound of disgust. “Many times I am told you were seen in Québec. It is not such a great distance between that city and this fire.”

Cormac had expected the reproach. He could not tell his manhood father that he had been as far south as Carolina looking for a white woman. “I found the hawk, Father. The one in my dream. At least I think it was that one.”

“It is not likely that you will have been sent to look for two hawks. So?”

Corm shook his head. “He told me many things, but I still do not know who the white bear is. Kwashko says it is him, but—”

“My other whiteface son is a red bear, is he not? Has his hair turned white since I saw him?”

“No, Father. He is still Uko Nyakwai. That is why … But even if he is correct, I do not know if the threat to the little birds is finished.”

“Red Bear,” Bishkek muttered. “Disgusting name.” They squatted near a cooking pot suspended over a fire tended by one of Bishkek’s many daughters.
“Wisnawen,”
the old man demanded,
“yawukne?”
The squaw shook her head. The food was not yet ready. Bishkek stood. “Come, we must go to see someone.”

“Who?”

“The squaw priest.”

“The one who nearly stabbed me?”

“Nearly is not important. The flint did not go into your heart, did it?”

“No but—”

There was no wind, but an unseasonably biting cold. Bishkek pulled the blanket he wore closer around his shoulders. “Come. Otherwise by the time we return the food will be cold.”

They began walking. Bishkek looked up at the sky. It was gray and heavy.
“Pkon,”
he muttered.
“Nagic.”
Snow soon. “My bridge person son must not be here when the snow comes.”

“Leaf Falling is too early for snow.”

“Perhaps the clouds do not know which moon it is. Perhaps they do not care. Tomorrow or the next day it will snow. You must leave before the first flakes come.”

“You always say that. But I am not a squaw or a child. It does not matter if it snows. If I want to leave, I can still—”

“Be quiet. Do you think you are the only one who has dreams?”

They had walked as far as the dome-shaped wickiup the village had erected for Shabnokis the Midè squaw priest. Having her near Singing Snow was a good thing; not having her actually living among them was even better. Everyone knew that the priests of the Midewiwin often caused trouble.

There was no sign of Shabnokis, but they could hear her chanting.
“Wa hi, hi, hi. Haya, haya.”

“She is praying,” Corm said. “Better we go away and come back tomorrow.” He wasn’t sure why the thought of another session with Shabnokis was so unpleasant, only that it was.

“I already told you, you must leave tomorrow.”

“Yes, before the snow.” Corm’s tone made it obvious how unlikely he thought that to be. “But the priest is busy. She won’t like it if we—”

“She chants because she knows we’re here. So we’ll be impressed with how holy she is. Praying all the time even when no one is around.” Bishkek cupped his hands around his mouth.
“Ho! Jebye. Kteshyamin.”
We have come.

The chant stopped and the blanket that covered the door of the wickiup was pushed aside. Shabnokis looked older than Corm remembered her. Her hair was entirely white and she wore it in two plaits that hung over her shoulders. “Why do you make so much noise? I knew you were coming and I know you are here. I was praying for that one, the scar-face.” She jerked her head in Corm’s direction, but spoke of him as if he were not present. “He needs prayers.”