Shadowbrook (83 page)

Wolfe’s guns could not shell the town from the He d’Orléans, but he believed Québec would be in range from the heights of Pointe-Lévis on the opposite shore. Monckton, his senior brigadier and a Yorkshireman accustomed to plain speech, said that couldn’t be so. “If the guns could do them damage from this elbow,” he bent over the map the two were studying and indicated Pointe-Lévis with a blunt finger, “surely they’d have fortified it.”

“Why is it, General Monckton, that if I say black, you say white?”

“Begging your pardon, General Wolfe, I do not. I merely wish to point out that—”

“That we should accept French wisdom. Which, I remind you, also said we could not navigate La Traverse, or bring anything through that was bigger than a hundred tons.”

Like a rat he was, an ugly little white rat with pink eyes. God rot Cooke for ever showing them the way through that God-rotting channel, and Wolfe for being the first to support the notion. No telling him anything now. “There’s not a single battery on the whole of the south shore, General Wolfe. Not a gun. That has to mean that the French engineers believe—”

“I do not, sir, mean to conduct this campaign according to the beliefs of the French engineers. We will take Pointe-Lévis and bring up our guns.”

“A man,
ma Mère,
at the turn.” Angelique was at her most wide-eyed. “He demands to see whoever is ‘in charge in this place.’ I directed him to the chapel, but he refused to go.”

“Yes, I expect that is so. He did not ask for me by name?” The governor-general had sent two emissaries in the past four days, and the marquis de Montcalm one. All three had been extremely respectful, however insistent.

“No,
ma Mère,
he asks only for a person with authority.”

Marie Rose was at her writing table, preparing a testament that was to be sent back to the founding monastery in Montargis once she and all her nuns were dead. Soeur Stephane might be the first, but surely they all faced the same fate. “Tell him he must come back tomorrow. I am too busy to come to the turn just now.”

Angelique did not leave. “I humbly beg,
ma Mère
…”

“
Oui?
What is it, child?”

“The man,
ma Mère,
his accent … I do not think he is like the others. I think perhaps he has been sent by …” Angelique’s voice dropped to a whisper. “General Wolfe,
ma Mère.
Possibly. I mean, I cannot—”

“Did you smell no brimstone, Soeur Angelique? Feel no heat of the devil’s fire?”

“On no,
ma Mère.
I do not mean—”

Marie Rose put down her quill. “Very well,
ma Soeur,
I will go to the turn.”

“I will come with you,
ma Mère.
I will bring holy water and—”

“I will confront the devil alone, Soeur Angelique. You may go back to your chores.”

The little Angelique was quite correct. The man spoke French badly, and with an English accent. So, a man sent by the General Wolfe? Not likely, but entirely possible. “Please, monsieur, I wish to be certain that I understand. If you would kindly repeat—”

Quent marshaled all his patience. “I am telling you, madame, that you and your nuns are in grave danger.”

“On whose authority do you say this, monsieur?”

“On the authority of common sense, madame.”

Marie Rose leaned her forehead against the wood of the turn. Only for a moment, and only because she was alone. It was imperative that none of her nuns know how weary she was. “Apparently common sense has become a much more common virtue since I have entered the cloister. You are the fourth person to tell me of our danger, monsieur.”

“Then why are you still here?”

“May I ask, monsieur, what business that is of yours?” A question only to gain time. While she considered. Could it be him? Yes, it was possible.

“I am concerned for you and the other nuns, madame.”

A stranger with an English accent who does not know how to address a nun. The very large redheaded man who brought Soeur Stephane that first day. “Are you perhaps most concerned for one of my nuns, monsieur? One in particular.” Holy Spirit, grant me wisdom and discernment. And let him not hear the pounding of my heart. “If that is so, I can assure you that we are all of one opinion.”

Jesus God Almighty. Was there no reasoning with the woman? “Madame, the English soldiers have taken Pointe-Lévis. They are now directly across from you. They are not of your religion, madame, and they will not respect your way of life. You must all leave this place. The Lower Town in particular is not safe.”

The redcoats had made up a ditty. They sang it all the time, made up verses to suit whatever bellicose mood took them:

And when we have done with the mortars and guns,
If you please, Madame Abbess, a word with your nuns.
Each soldier shall enter the convent in buff,
And then never fear, we will give them Hot Stuff!

Even Wolfe had laughed at this latest version.

“Madame, do you hear me? I truly think—”

“I think, monsieur, that you have put yourself in some peril to bring us this warning, and I am sure that God will reward you for your kindness. Now it is best if you go away.”

“And will you do the same, madame?” He stamped down his frustration with her obstinacy, not letting himself shout the words.

“No, monsieur, we will not. We have taken a vow to remain enclosed in this place. If we are to die here, then so be it.” Angelique and Françoise were both making a novena to petition for martyrdom. Joseph had started another. Her request was for quick martyrdom, without being tortured first. It was Stephane who said she was quite sure English soldiers would not torture nuns. All, Marie Rose thought, a matter of definition. “Good night to you, monsieur. I shall hold you in my prayers.”

“They have all but emptied the Lower Town of
habitants,
” Quent told Wolfe. “Your ammunition will be wasted, General.”

“Never that. Makes the men feel good to fire their guns. Besides, it’ll put the fear of God in the enemy. Still … You’re sure about the locals?”

Quent nodded. “Very sure.”

“You’ve been over there, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Bloody damn. I might have known. How did you manage it? The way you look, I should think you’d be easy to spot.”

“There are ways, General.”

No one would have thought much about an Indian standing in the alley, leaning into the turn conferring with the invisible nuns. The man with Huron face-markings and blacked hair, wearing a smock and breeches, would be assumed to be one of the Christian Indians from the Jesuit missions come to aid in the defense of Québec.

“Yes, of course,” Wolfe agreed. “Many ways I suppose for a man of your talents.” It was Hale who had convinced him to have the redcoats’ jackets made a bit freer and shorter, so they weren’t as restrictive. And putting the light infantry in those caps with the black cloth under the chin, that was an excellent idea. Kept the men a bit warmer when they were belly down on the ground. “Mr. Hale, I have been thinking. Why can’t our troops wear their knapsacks higher and fastened across their backs the way the Indians do? That would be an excellent accommodation, don’t you think?”

“Excellent, General Wolfe. Leaves both hands free.”

“Yes, my thought exactly. I shall issue the command. Mr. Hale, will you go again?”

“Sir?”

“To Québec, Hale. Will you go again on my behalf? See if you can tell us by what manner we can get up those damnable cliffs.”

Quent fixed him with his most intense stare. “If I find a way, I’ll tell you. But this idea of shelling the Lower Town, General, it’s really not—”

Wolfe had already turned away.

SATURDAY, JULY 12, 1759
POINTE-LÉVIS

Not yet dawn. Wolfe stood on the battlements, wrapped and muffled against the rain and the chill and the nagging ache in his lower belly, doing up the buttons of his breeches. Sweet Jesus, what wouldn’t he give for a proper piss, one without the burning. A lot. But not everything, by damn. Not Québec. I’ll have this prize if I have to stay here until November. And if there’s nothing left but rubble by the time I take it, well, that’s their choice.

He raised his hand. The grenadiers in their tall mitered caps ran forward and lit the charges, then dashed out of the line of fire. The bombardment of Québec began with a hail of cannonballs that fell into the river. The officers in charge of the shelling called out the adjustments to be made and the reloading began.

The goal was simply to have their ammunition reach the shore. Everyone assumed that even if the French engineers were wrong and General Wolfe was right and cannon could do damage from this distance, only the Lower Town
would be in peril. When the gunners finally found their range, the first direct hit was at the very top of the escarpments, on the Collège des Jésuites. The men sent up a huge cheer, then broke into song.

Quent heard the boom of the cannon and the tumult of success from a distance. Since dawn he had been prowling the forest between the camp and the village of Beaumont, stopping every once in a while to whistle the call of the northern loon. There was no response. Even if one came he couldn’t be sure it would be Corm who’d appear. The woods were full of Indians, and Canadians who’d disguised themselves as Indians. The redcoats had taken to posting double pickets after a number of single sentries at the perimeter of their camps were found killed and scalped.

In God’s name, what did they expect? Gentlemanly conduct, Wolfe said. Quent whistled again, and heard only silence. Wolfe said it was the scalping he couldn’t stomach. Death was to be expected in war, but mutilating the corpse … that wasn’t how gentlemen fought. Hell no, gentlemen did their damage from a distance. The chinless bastard bloody well knows he can’t take Québec by shelling it; he admits he’s only doing it to keep the men occupied. What about—Quent heard the faint scuffling sounds of moccasins touching the earth.

There was an enormous maple tree to his left, with a trunk too big for him to get his arms around. Quent ducked behind it and waited, tomahawk in hand. He had his long gun, but it was almost useless in these circumstances. The sound of a shot would bring hundreds of the enemy converging from every direction. A few more moments went by. Maybe he’d been wrong. No, he could hear it more clearly now. The steady drumming of running feet. Moments later a half dozen Abenaki went by in single file. They were heading away from the English camp, not toward it, so he felt no need to engage them. How come Lantak and his renegades hadn’t shown up and given him a chance to settle that old score? No sign of him so far, and probably not going to be. Outlaws like Lantak skulked about on the fringes of things. They weren’t likely to relish a dash of this magnitude.

Quent waited until the Abenaki were out of sight, then whistled the loon’s cry once more. There was still no answer.

THUNDER MOON, THE THIRD SUN
THE VILLAGE OF SINGING SNOW

Bishkek was staring at him, at least so it seemed to Corm. His manhood father was in a square box made of woven twigs. A log for his chin to rest on had been fixed across the open top. Bishkek was dead.

Every member of the village sat on blankets spread on the ground—squaws
and small children in one place and men and boys in another, Bishkek’s burial box between them—and ate the feast of stewed corn and berries and bear fat. No one spoke. The only sounds were made by Shabnokis and her drum and her chanted prayers. “He is not here in this body,” she had told Corm when he arrived that morning. “His spirit has left this worn-out thing behind. But”—she had gestured to the air above their heads—“he is still here with us. He will not go to the next world for a time.”