The Meeting Place (31 page)

Catherine had never known anything like the city of Halifax. Although it was less than five years old, already it was so large it could have swallowed a dozen Edwards and scarcely have noticed. The hills rising along three sides were all ugly and scarred where the forests had been felled for timber. The houses and the fort and the raised plank sidewalks all seemed to have
exploded
from the earth. There was such a frenetic energy it almost frightened her.

And the noise. The air was filled with banging and hammering and shouting. And dust. The streets were packed with regiments of soldiers marching and stamping and snapping their weapons to their shoulders and then pounding them back into the earth at their feet. They and the countless wagons and the horses and the mules all threw up so much dust she carried a handkerchief before her face and covered the baby's face with gauze as she hurried along the wooden sidewalks.

Neither the noise, nor the dust, nor the strangeness bothered little Antoinette at all. That first day the doctor had given Catherine an elixir that had seemed to ease the infant's distress almost instantly. Since then the child had spent most of her hours either eating or sleeping. Whenever she awoke, her expression seemed one of surprise at the freedom from pain. Catherine knew the baby could not remember such things, yet she could not help feeling that the child was not disturbed by the outer clamor simply because the greater internal suffering had finally been eased.

But the imprint of her earlier distress was still visible. The baby was far too small for her age. That very morning, the doctor had warned her as gently as he could that the child might not ever fully recover. She had suffered much, and her body might be permanently weakened, he had explained, urging Catherine to take special care and keep her sheltered. Catherine had stammered out her thanks, aching from the thought of having to convey this news to Louise. But at least the baby seemed genuinely to be on the mend, especially after this morning's second visit, when the doctor had expressed satisfaction with little Antoinette's immediate progress. It seemed that she had responded to the medicine he had given. It had been very startling to hear this man refer to this baby as her own. But as she had walked the sidewalk back toward their inn, Catherine found herself looking at the baby anew. As though somehow having the doctor call her
Elspeth
had drawn the two of them closer together. Wrapped another bond around them, tightening the cords which Catherine now believed would hold them together for life, no matter how far apart they might be, no matter how different Antoinette's future might be from that of her own child.

As she approached the inn's entrance, Catherine jumped at the sound of cannon booming in the distance. Either from the sound or from her reaction, the baby began to cry. Catherine cast a glance out to where the rock-lined harbor spread in the distance, so crammed with ships it was hard to even count their numbers. Those coming or going could not maneuver under their own sail. Instead, they were towed out by men bending over the oars of smaller gunboats.

Stepping inside, Catherine asked the inn's day-clerk, “Is it usual to see so many ships at anchor?”

“Oh no, ma'am. Especially not this late, not after the spring convoy arrives.” The young man looked out the front window with a keen yearning to his pinched gaze. “No, there's something up, you mark my words. I'm thinking of joining the forces, make a name for myself in the fighting. Earn myself some good land, as they say.”

Catherine's nervous smile of thanks was lost upon the young man, whose gaze remained fastened upon the harbor and the ships. She could not suppress a shiver of fear as she climbed the narrow stairs to her room. This place and its noise and its constant call of battle was certainly not for her. The sooner her father finished with his mysterious business and they could return to Edward, the better.

Chapter 26

The fort of Annapolis Royal had never looked more foreboding.

Andrew stared at the numerous regimental standards flying from the towers and ramparts. The martial air was heightened by the cracking of muskets in target practice and the squadrons dressed for regimental inspection shining and sweating in the afternoon sun. A second line of sentries stationed out beyond the fort's main gates seemed like harbingers of the news he feared to find inside. Andrew found himself tense and worried long before the inner gates were reached.

Trumpets sounded within the fort. Andrew and his men were forced to step aside as a mounted troop galloped past. Andrew recognized the officer in charge, an outpost adjutant as he had once been himself. Andrew called out, “What news?”

The officer turned to him, gave a salute of recognition, and grinned with such fierceness Andrew felt his blood chill. The man shouted back, “War!”

Andrew gathered himself as best he could and signaled his men onward. He turned in his saddle as their horses clip-clopped across the wooden drawbridge. The men who followed were as dusty and weary as he. Still, he felt obliged to order, “Button your tunic, Corporal. You men, dress that line. All right, show some pride, the general's eyes are upon you.”

The words were rote, a warning passed through countless generations of colonial soldiers arriving at the main garrison. Only today it happened to be true. General Whetlock was indeed standing by the parade ground's flagpole, addressing a group of officers.

Andrew slipped from his horse, tossed the reins to the standard-bearer, and hurried across the dusty ground. The general noted his arrival with, “Ah, Harrow. You made it, then. Any trouble along the road?”

He snapped off his best salute. “No, sir. Why? Should there be?”

A murmur ran through the line of officers, not quite a chuckle. Yet Randolf Stevenage was not the only one to sneer in Andrew's direction. Andrew ignored them as best he could. He knew officers here at the main garrison were prone to consider soldiers stationed at outlying forts as scarcely better than colonials.

The general cut into his thoughts with, “You haven't heard the latest, then.”

“We've been riding hard for two days, General. We haven't seen a soul on the road.” Which in itself was exceptional for that time of year. Not a drover, not a cart, not a French trader, not a single person.

“Join me in my quarters.” The general turned back to the gathering and continued, “You men have your orders. Any questions?”

There was a chorus of “no sirs” in response. The general nodded. “Very well. Carry on.”

Andrew went back and directed his men to decamp and see to their mounts. He then turned to follow the general indoors. He was initially glad to see Randolf Stevenage mount up and ride away at the head of another troop. But Stevenage paused by the main gates to shoot Andrew a look of pure triumph, a very disconcerting signal from the man at the best of times. Now, when the fort was full of shouting and trumpets and standards and dust and men, it caused Andrew the greatest of unease.

“Come in, Harrow, come in.” From beneath his bushy white eyebrows, the general tossed Andrew a penetrating glance, one which whispered a warning to Andrew's heart. This was as disturbing as the fort's martial air, for the general had long been a friend of the Harrow family.

Andrew maintained a formal stance as the general unbuckled his belt and handed it to his aide. “We are still awaiting the regimental officers from Port St. John, and a few—”

A second aide knocked on the door. “Begging your pardon, sir. Colonel Lewis and his men just rode in.”

“Have them join us immediately.” The general unfurled a large map of Acadia upon his desk as he waited. Andrew felt a pang of unspoken danger as he spotted regimental numbers scrawled along both shorelines of his beloved Cobequid Bay. The general studied the map as he asked, “What was the status of your region when you left, Harrow?”

“Peaceful, sir. May I ask—”

“All in due course. How many men did you leave at the fort?”

“Scarcely two dozen, ten of them on the sick list with influenza. But my orders were to report here with the strongest contingent possible. Sir—”

The clump of heavy boots cut him off, and he turned to greet six men in dusty uniforms. The senior officer led them in, saluted the general, and said, “Colonel Thomas Lewis reporting as ordered, sir.”

“Excellent. Gentlemen, you know Captain Harrow, I presume.” There were nods all around. “Right. I suppose you also have not heard the latest news. No, of course not. Well, not all of it is bad. Let us get the worst out of the way first. Gentlemen, I regret to inform you that General Braddock has been killed in action.”

There was a murmur of disbelief about the room. General Braddock, a legend in his own time, was a man of great military bearing with a string of victorious battles to his credit. General Whetlock continued. “Ten days ago there was a battle at Monongahela. The general led an expeditionary force, some of the men seasoned troops from England, the rest colonials from the south, conscripted and rather ill-trained. They were met by eight hundred French regulars, reinforced by an uncounted number of Indians.”

The number was staggering. Andrew's fort at full contingency held merely sixty men, and with that he was expected to cover a territory stretching four days' ride in every direction. Eight hundred regular soldiers was half as many as the British army had to control all of Acadia.

“The British goal was Fort Duquesne,” the general continued. “I regret to say they never made it. They were forced to withdraw and took heavy losses. General Braddock fell while directing their retreat.”

There was a moment's stunned silence before Colonel Lewis said, “Begging your pardon, sir. How heavy?”

“Our losses were—well, quite heavy indeed.” The general's cheeks fluttered with his sigh. “We lost upward of five hundred men. The French lost twenty-three.”

Surreptitiously, Andrew scanned the other faces in the room, noting a growing and bitter desire for revenge. He shook his head, only a fraction, wishing there were something he could say, something he could do to halt the momentum building toward catastrophe.

“The other news is better.” General Whetlock attempted to gather himself and put on a more positive face. “A second force, this one of navy and marines out of Halifax, has attacked and successfully defeated Port Royal. Which means that the French no longer have sea access anywhere along the Bay of Fundy.”

But which also meant that the army's defeat only looked worse in these officers' eyes, Andrew realized. Colonel Lewis's tone grated harshly as he said, “Your orders, General?”

“Yes. Quite right. On to the future.” General Whetlock took in the map and the entire province of Acadia in one broad sweep of his hand. “Gentlemen, yesterday the senior officials of French Acadia were gathered in Halifax. They will not be allowed to leave.”

Andrew gripped the windowsill behind him, forcing himself to remain steady, though he heard the words with mounting panic.

“Governor Lawrence has determined, with the accord of the senior army and navy officials in Acadia, that there is too great a risk of the French settlers using our current losses in the field as an opportunity to revolt.”

Andrew cleared his throat. “Sir, excuse me, is there any evidence of this happening?”

“There have been stepped-up attacks on every road in Acadia, except your own.” Whetlock's gesture waved the exception aside. “But that is beside the point. What we are dealing with here is the
threat
.”

“Quite right,” Lewis murmured, shooting Andrew a warning glance.

“The French have refused time and time again to take the oath of allegiance to the British Crown. They have been warned. They have flouted our warnings. They will now pay.”

No
. The cry of Andrew's heart was so strong he thought it was audible. He felt a sense of cold sickness sweep through his being.
It cannot be. They are not a threat. We live in peace
.

“We could march in and wipe out the enemy, of course,” General Whetlock continued, “but Governor Lawrence has decided that since this particular lot has been peaceful in the past, we should follow some moderating course. Grant them a semblance of political freedom. Despite the fact that this direction puts us to a great deal of trouble— and expense.” He straightened from his map and commanded, “All the French settlers of Acadia are to be gathered up forthwith and loaded onto His Majesty's vessels. They will be taken to the French provinces further south, or back to France itself.”

“About time,” muttered Lewis. “Ship them off to where they can do no harm.”

Andrew protested, “They are doing no harm here.”

“That will do, Harrow!” General Whetlock clearly was ready for such a comment from him. “Colonel Lewis, you and your men are to make a sweep southward, as far as Antoineville—you see it here on the map. Return with every French person of every village along this route. My aide has lists ready. Check them carefully. Ships are scheduled to arrive here the night after tomorrow. Which means you must move swiftly.”

“Swift it shall be, sir.”

“Men, women, children. Allow no one to escape. You have four villages to cover. Conscript whatever carts and wagons you require. Confiscate anything of value. All that the French leave behind is to become property of the Crown. Any questions?”

“None, sir.”

“Very well. Make haste, sir. And be back on time.”

Whetlock accepted the salutes and motioned for Andrew to remain where he was. When the room was cleared, he said, “Close the door, Harrow.”

“Sir.”

When Andrew had returned to stand before the general's desk, Whetlock snapped, “There is only one thing which keeps me from court-martialing you on charges of disobeying direct orders in the face of the enemy.” Whetlock's gaze and words lashed with fiery rage. “Which, I remind you, carry a penalty of death by hanging. That one item, Harrow, is the respect I hold for your family. I had heard you were growing too fond of your French neighbors. That is why you were called out and another garrison sent in to take over.”