War Path (26 page)

General Montcalm was not pleased that Fort Edward was still in the hands of the English. Worse, last autumn's constant depredations by these Rangers had reached the general's ear. In his last dispatch Montcalm made it abundantly clear, he wanted the English and the Colonials crushed, their spirits broken. He wanted them driven back across the Adirondacks. It was a tall order. But if Colonel Lucien Barbarat could not get it done, Montcalm intended to find another man for the job.

Barbarat scowled. He had come too far, risen in rank too fast to let his dreams slip away. He needed his allies, the Abenaki, and any of the other tribes, if possible, the Seneca, the Mohawk. At the Gathering he intended to argue they should bring their warriors and march the War Path with Atoan and the French to destroy the English once and for all, thereby assuring the eternal friendship of the French crown, and Lucien's own good fortune.

But drawing upon the allegiance of a man like Atoan required Barbarat's presence at the Gathering. It required him to leave the comfort of this feather bed and his mistress's house. Barbarat sighed audibly and sat up in bed, lifted the covers, glimpsed a half-moon portion of plump derriere, leaned over and planted a kiss on that patch of pink flesh. He felt a stirring in his loins for the widow and briefly considered malingering in her company.

But duty called him, this time in the form of Madame LeBret's maidservant, Nicolette Perillard, a toothsome little wench, all fluster and giggles in cotton petticoat, apron and lace-trimmed bodice who busily entered the room and drew back the shades.

“Begging your pardon,
mon Colonel,”
said Nicolette. “You requested me to draw the curtains at first light.”

“That I did, child,” he said.

“And, sir,
Père Jean
waits in the parlour.”

“The priest? But I only just heard the bells of Saint Michael's.”

“Je ne sais pas.”
The young woman shrugged. “I do not know who rang the bells. But the priest waits for you.” She averted her eyes as Barbarat rose from the bed and padded, naked across the floor, caught the maid by the arm, turned her to him, tilted her chin, and then brought her hand to his lips. First he kissed her knuckles, then lowered her hand to his belly.

“Monsieur!”
Nicolette exclaimed, blushing, and pulled her hand away.

Barbarat laughed aloud. “Bring the priest some tea and tell him I will see him soon. He may walk with me to the fort.”

The maid, still embarrassed by his behavior, gathered up the hem of her skirt and rushed from the room, leaving the colonel, naked and thoroughly bemused, in the center of the room.

“Scamper off, my petite plum. I'll taste your nectar on my return,” he called after her. Pleased with himself, Lucien swaggered over to an end table and poured a glass of brandy to sharpen his senses and with drink in hand, sprawled naked in a well-appointed wingback chair. His body was lean and pale, and though born to good breeding, his deportment bespoke decadence. In some ways it was said he took after his father who likewise was given to a reckless lifestyle that had left his estate bankrupt and forced his son to enter the service of the king rather than face debtor's prison.

The widow rolled over on her backside, her ample belly rose and fell as she tried to return to sleep. Then she propped up on an elbow and glanced at the naked man seated near the bed.
“Quelle heure es-til?
What time is it, my lovely?”

“Time I was on my way.” Lucien sipped the brandy, enjoying the bouquet and the warmth as it spread through his limbs. Roxanne LeBret had no illusions about her paramour. But she liked men she could understand. She had not always been wealthy; however, her earthy sensuality had attracted the attentions of a lonely merchant whose company carried on a lively fur trade throughout the length and breadth of Lake Champlain from the settlement of Fort Carillon to Quebec.

Shortly after her marriage, the old fur trader died; there were rumors that he had succumbed during a particularly strenuous evening of lovemaking. Barbarat didn't doubt the story for a minute. Throughout the night, the widow seemed almost insatiable and it wasn't until the early morning hours, well after midnight, that she fell asleep and allowed his spent strength a much-needed respite.

“Were you naughty to poor Nicolette? I think you were,” the voice drifted from the covers. The Widow LeBret was an amply-endowed brunette, a round and luscious woman ten years his senior who might have passed for a courtesan with her rouge red cheeks and her complexion hidden beneath a layer of white powder that the evening's romp in bushy park had left smeared.

LeBret swept the covers aside to reveal herself in all her carnal glory. “Where must you go that is more important than being here with me? God has a generous heart but there is one sin he cannot forgive, if a woman calls a man to her bed and he does not accept.”

“Then I must offend the Almighty,
mon petite choufleur.”
Barbarat finished his wine, set the glass upon the floor next to the clawed foot of the chair, stood and padded naked about the room as he gathered his clothes. “I must trade your pleasing company for that of a multitude of savages.” He began to dress while the woman slipped quietly into her bed jacket and summoned her maid to return by a pull of a bell cord by the bed.

“We have all heard talk of this Gathering.” The widow walked to the window, stood in the sunlight, and looked out across the narrow stone-paved streets of the settlement. She had followed the French army out from Quebec, a commoner taken into the service of the man who had become her husband and in death, her benefactor. There were ladies in Quebec who might look down upon her but what mattered most was the strongbox hidden in the loose floor-boards beneath her bed.

Lucien Barbarat did not choose to confide in the woman about his intentions when he met with Atoan and quickly dressed in his gray
justacorps
, donned the blue and gray waistcoat and white breeches. He sat on the side of the bed and pulled on his calf-length black boots. His ceremonial sword and pistol were the last of his apparel.

“Père Jean
waits below. I prefer to meet with the priest in private.”

“The priest … here?” the widow blurted out. “Now? Well as you say, my love. I must surrender you to the regiment. But when you return from the heathen, I claim you for my own.”

“And I live for the day, Madame,” he replied and bowing, doffed his plumed hat.

Father Jean Isaac was lost in his thoughts. His long black robes absorbed the heat of the morning sun where he stood in the walled garden that separated the front of the widow's house from the street. He doubted his chances of convincing Colonel Barbarat to amend his ways. The man was a libertine. He was consumed by worldly pleasures and desires at the risk of eternal condemnation. But he had not come to the widow's to preach salvation to the commander of Fort Carillon. Today, Father Jean hoped there might be a way of preventing the colonel from destroying a people along with his jaded lust for wealth and glory.

“You did not take any tea?” asked Barbarat, emerging from the house to find the priest admiring the blossoms Widow LeBret's servants had been carefully tending since the first shoots sprouted from the earth. Many of the buds were wildflowers cultivated to grace the courtyard with a palette of colors.

Father Jean gave a start, glanced up at the officer. To the eyes of the officer, the black robe seemed even more gaunt, as if somehow he alone bore responsibility for these terrible times. And perhaps he did. The foolish hymnkeeper was certainly not helping the French cause with his sermons and proselytizing.

“I was told at the fort I would find you here,
Mon Colonel.”

“I should imagine you would be at your church,
Père Jean.”

“My flock will wait for me.”

“Ah, yes, your obedient savages.”

“They have been baptized and have been welcomed into the body of Christ. Are you not comforted by the fact they are saved?”

“Because of your influence, they refuse to fight. No, priest, I am not comforted.” Barbarat waved a hand toward the gate that opened out onto the street of the settlement. “I must return to the fort. We march this day. So be quick. What do you want of me,
Père Jean
?”

“I wish to accompany you to the Gathering Place,” said the black robe.

Lucien Barbarat halted in his tracks and glanced sharply at the Jesuit.
“Quelle folie est ceci?
Do you take me for a fool? You are the last man I would bring with me to the Abenaki.”

“Many have already been baptized.”

“Oui,”
said the colonel. “In name only. But they fight alongside my troops. We have need of them. The last thing I need is for you to preach to them of peace.”

“I
serve
the prince of peace,” the priest pointedly replied.
“Mon Colonel
, I answer to a higher authority. This is our great challenge.” Father Jean Isaac sighed, clasped his hands before him. The black robe's fingers were gnarled and ugly-looking, like twisted roots. He had spent what seemed a lifetime bringing Christianity to the Iroquois and Abenaki and had suffered terribly at the hands of the very people he had come to save. And still he remained. Barbarat would have been happy to pack the troublemaker off to Rome.

“It is a terrible wrong, to use these people as you do,” the priest exclaimed, “to fight for us, to die for us, because of a war that is none of their making.”

“I will not have you undermine my alliances,” the officer snapped. He walked away from the priest, opened the gate, stepped out into the street where a detachment of marines and his personal guard, awaited him, standing at attention.

Barbarat reached beneath his coat and produced a glass brandy flask he had pilfered from the widow's pantry. He tossed it to the soldiers who cheered the officer and proceeded to pass the dark brown flask among themselves. Barbarat grinned. The colonel knew who he needed to please. And it wasn't the Jesuit.

He returned to the entrance and glanced at the priest standing on the other side of the wrought-iron gate. The church bells had begun to sound yet again. No doubt his flock was becoming overanxious. Barbarat touched his ear, pursed his lips a moment as if listening intently to the bells while his men prepared to escort him to the fort.

“I hear your calling,
Père Jean
. Never fear. Your time will come, when this war is won, and I no longer need these heathens. Then you can worry about saving their souls.” He touched the brim of his plumed hat and then drew close to the gate and added in the soft, stern tone of voice one might reserve for a child, “Right now I must worry about saving New France.”

34

T
he wind moaned. The spirits spoke. The man on the bluff overlooking the golden lake waited while the sun dipped toward the western shore. He kept a solitary vigil, reverent, listening to his gods, to the voices of those who had gone before him and came to him now in his hour of need. No trees grew on the crest. It was as if they feared coming too close to the edge of the cliff. The jagged half-submerged rocks a hundred feet below looked singularly uninviting.

Atoan knew a wise man must be wary in the presence of the Old Ones. Tricksters walked among them and played with the destinies of men, raised them to glory, brought them to ruin. A man must be careful. And he was. To be certain that his brothers among the Seneca and Huron would not mistake his intentions, Atoan painted the left side of his face white, signifying peace. The Grand Sachem was regally dressed in a fine hunting shirt adorned with porcupine quills and silver medallions, likewise his buckskin leggings and moccasins were intricately decorated with glass trade beads. He wore a leather cap topped with raven feathers and had draped a bright yellow blanket over his shoulder. Atoan carried no weapon. In the camp in the valley below, a rifle and war club would always be close at hand. But he did not anticipate trouble. The valley in the shadow of the Pass Through Rock was a place of peace, where tribes might hold council with one another no matter how fierce the enmity between them.

Wisdom sits here.
I will need it
, he thought. To the east the sky was a deep and burnished blue dome. To the west, where the sun died behind the hills, the horizon looked like polished copper. Atoan, between light and darkness, began to sing a song from long ago.

“When Grandfather Thunder walks upon the mountain
,

He shall strike the earth with his club.

Then we shall dance. Then we shall sing in his honor.

Then we shall join with our brothers

And paint ourselves for war.”

But who was his brother? Lost Arrow of the Seneca? Claws In The Water of the Huron? Or the Frenchman, Colonel Lucien Barbarat? Ha! The Frenchman was just another long knife, like the
Anglais
. But he had his uses. Atoan could foresee a day, after the
Anglais
were driven out, when at the head of a mighty confederacy of Seneca and Huron and armed by soldiers like Barbarat, the Grand Sachem would demand the French withdraw from their settlements or perish. This land belonged to only one people.

My people
, Atoan said in a whisper, lost in his thoughts.

The drums started. The sound seemed to roll up the hillside toward the cliff, it curled around the trees like a slithering snake, its primal cadence stirred his soul. Atoan sensed movement off to the side and spied a familiar figure on the trail.

Kasak arrived and called out to his father. The young warrior was breathing hard, having run up the path to the hilltop to summon the Grand Sachem to the camp. “Father …”

“I hear the drums.”

“The council waits.”

Atoan held up his hand. “Do you hear them?”

Kasak listened to the voices in the hills, keening on the wind. “What do the Old Ones say?”