Shadowbrook (81 page)

“Ah yes, Mr. Hale. The native voice. Go ahead, man, tell us your suggestion.”

Quent thought of Nicole, of how close she was and how much danger she might be in, and swallowed his bile. He jerked his head toward the Cross of St. George flying from the masthead. “Take down the English flag, sir, and fly the French. It should allow you to get close enough to answer any enemy fire with your own.”

“Devious, you Americans,” Saunders murmured. “Is it Indian-style to approve of sailing under false colors?”

Hell take you, you insufferable bastard. As if the same trick hasn’t been employed a hundred times by your precious Royal Navy. “Indians don’t have flags, Admiral. That’s why they use war paint and tattoos to identify themselves.”

“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 assent.

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 passage,” 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 shipwreck, 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 shipwreck 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 passage. In the heart of La Traverse the current reversed itself and flowed upstream, or so it seemed. The river was a seething, heaving mass 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 damned 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 passage was a zigzag and not wide, but deep enough. When the
Goodwill
drew level with the lower point of the Ile d’Orléans, 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 ships went through La Traverse in two days. Forty-nine were warships, 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 Québec, the fortress city of New France.

SATURDAY, JUNE 28, 1759
QUéBEC UPPER TOWN

“EH BIEN, MES
amis, les Anglais sont arrivés.”
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 Québec knew. They had tried using fire ships 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’Orléans, 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 Québec. Pontbriand had tried to do his duty by remaining here, but ever since he had permitted Père 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 warships 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 Général?
”

Montcalm shook his head. “Not quite, Excellency. If your figures are accurate—”

“I have them on superb authority,
mon Général.
” 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’Orléans,” His Excellency murmured.

Montcalm shrugged. “If the patriot can count, and if there are not still more fighting men aboard the ships, 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. God 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 Général. 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 raccoon.
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 Midè 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 Général
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 Rivières or Montréal, and leave the defense of Québec to men who would hide behind trees and harass 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 Général?
”

“The sort with which we military men are famliar. The
siège 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 Québec 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 pass 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 Québec?”

Père Antoine waited across from the Château Saint-Louis keeping to the shadows of one of the grand houses surrounding the Place d’Armes. He was shivering. 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 château, 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 château 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 château 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. Père Antoine watched him for only a moment. For once the Jesuit was not the focus of his interest.

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