Part 48 (1/2)
The Teller and the Midewiwin priest consulted, then said it was permitted. Everyone sat on the ground and Corm began the story of his dream and the gift of Memetosia the Miami chief, and of the great war that the English and the French Cmokmanuk were fighting. ”And when it is over and the English have won, all the Cmokmanuk will leave this place and it will be for the Anis.h.i.+nabeg,” he finished. ”That was the meaning of my dream, and whatever dream it was that caused Memetosia the Miami to give me the Suckauhock that comes from long ago.”
Corm took the medicine bag with the crane symbols from around his neck and gave it to Kekomoson. ”Inside is the Suki bead marked with eeyeelia, the possum. It is the last of the stones and I have kept it for my people and my village, because the Anis.h.i.+nabeg half of my bridge is here and will always be here.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven.
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 1759.
QUeBEC LOWER TOWN.
TWO BUILDINGS IN the Lower Town had miraculously withstood the day and night bombardment of the city and become symbols of hope for the habitants, the little church of Notre-Dame-des-Victoires and the Monastery of the Poor Clares. Now, after nearly two months of punishment, they too were gone. A huge fire fanned by a northeast chinook had spread from the Lower Town to the Upper. The bucket brigades were endless and useless. For days afterward the air was choked with smoke and a thick black cloud covered the sky in every direction.
Quent stood in the gathering dusk of the evening, looking at the rubble that was all that was left of the monastery. He could still feel heat rising from the stones. Probably the only time the G.o.d-rotting place had ever really been warm. ”Les religieuses,” he demanded of a habitant poking through the remains. ”Ou sont les religieuses?” The man looked at him oddly-Quent wasn't sure if it was his stiff and unconvincing French or his appearance-and shrugged, muttering something about not being G.o.d and therefore not required to worry about nuns.
He was going to grab the man and beat some information out of him if necessary, when he heard the three-note whistle. Jesus b.l.o.o.d.y Christ, Cormac Shea. It took you long enough. Quent whistled a reply, and waited. The scavenger began backing away, stooping to retrieve a large sack before squeezing between two big boulders into what had been the alley beyond the front door. ”Allez, larron!” Quent called after him. He wanted to add that he would do something terrible to the man if he caught him here again, but he didn't have sufficient French.
Routing the looter had kept him from hearing Corm's answering whistle. Presuming there was one, and that it was really him, not a bird confusing the issue. Quent whistled again.
”If you were my enemy you'd be dead by now,” a voice whispered from just over his left shoulder. ”You must be losing your touch.”
”My mind, more like. Where in h.e.l.l's name have you been?”
”In Louisiana for a time. And since the beginning of Thunder Moon, in Singing Snow. Bishkek is dead.”
Quent felt the grief rising in him. And the shame. ”G.o.d-rotting h.e.l.l ... Were you there for the funeral?”
”The first funeral, yes. I promised I'd try and return for the second.” The promise hadn't satisfied Shabnokis or anyone else, but it was the best he could do.
”I should have been-” Quent broke off. He should have done many things, and not being at Bishkek's funeral was only one of them. Right now, not even the most important. ”I came on this G.o.d-rotting expedition so I could protect Nicole. Look what a fine job I've made of it.”
There was a loud boom before Corm could answer. After an hour or so's rest the bombardment had started up again. The sh.e.l.ls lobbed from Pointe-Levis exploded overhead like fireworks, their flashes illuminating the devastation. Corm looked around, spotting a half-buried section of the iron grille he remembered from behind the altar. ”She's not dead, is she?”
”No, I'm sure not. I've found no evidence of any bodies. I think the nuns left soon after the sh.e.l.ling started.” He told how he'd urged them to go before the bombardment began, and how they'd refused to budge. ”The abbess said they had taken a vow to remain in this place, but I don't think she had any idea how bad it was going to be.”
”You didn't see the priest, Pere Antoine the brown robe?”
”No. I've been looking for him.” The constant barrage of English sh.e.l.ls had become background noise. They ignored it much as the Quebecois had ignored it for seven weeks.
”His house is ... was in this same alley, three doors nearer the harbor. I suppose it's a total rain as well.”
”Everything's a ruin.”
Corm reminded himself that it had to be that way if the Anis.h.i.+nabeg were to have Canada. All the Cmokmanuk things must be destroyed so they would leave and not come back. Still, the destruction he saw sickened him, the white half of him anyway. Easier to talk about something else. ”You get your dirk back yet?”
”Not yet. There's been no sign of Lantak.”
”Other Indians, though? Fighting with the French?”
Quent heard the bitterness. ”Not many. Fewer than there might have been. It wasn't likely the Suckauhock would be perfect, Corm. Nothing ever is.”
”If the English had said what was to happen, if they'd made a proclamation about Canada being for the Anis.h.i.+nabeg after they won the war, it would be perfect then.”
”That's not their way, saying things flat out like that.”
”Why not?”
”I'm not sure, but in London they call it diplomacy. It's how they do things.”
Corm walked to where the old alley used to be and watched the sh.e.l.ls being lobbed from the opposite sh.o.r.e. ”Are the English going to storm the Lower Town?”
”That's the one thing they're certain not to do. The French could just pick them off from the heights. Wolfe wants a battle, but on his terms. He's got to get his army up the cliffs before they engage.”
”That won't be easy.” The steep cliffs either side of the city were of monumental height. The only other approach was the Cote de la Montagne. If Wolfe's army tried to fight its way up that road they'd be slaughtered by troops on the walls above. A turkey shoot, with the outcome a.s.sured.
”Impossible,” Quent agreed. ”At least that's how it looks so far.”
”I take it you're staying over the way with the redcoats.” Corm jerked his head to indicate the English camp on Pointe-Levis.
”Yes.” Another round of cannon fire punctuated his answer.
”Go back there. Let me look for Nicole; When I find out something, I'll come and tell you.”
”Corm, I-”
”Go. Even got up like a Christian Huron you're too easy to spot. The habitants will tear you apart if they get the chance.”
”I wouldn't blame them,” Quent said softly.
In the middle of August, after Wolfe had been sh.e.l.ling Quebec for over a month without luring Montcalm into the battle he craved, he had declared his so-called restraint at an end and loosed the rangers on the surrounding countrywide. Their orders were to burn every house and barn, but not harm women and children or destroy churches. Only Indians and Canadians dressed as Indians were to be scalped. Having issued the order his conscience was apparently clear. The rangers went off singing about giving the locals hot stuff, and Quent had to live with the knowledge that it was thanks to him they existed. He'd gone on as many of the raids as he could because his presence went some way toward protecting the habitants from the worst excesses, but he couldn't be everywhere, and even his towering authority sometimes wasn't enough.
”Go on over to Pointe-Levis,” Corm said again. ”I'll find out where she is, then come and tell you.”
Quent waited until Corm had started for the Upper Town, then went to do some investigating on his own. The house belonging to the Franciscan priest was three doors down the alley. It appeared to be remarkably intact. The front wall looked much as it had when the houses either side of it still stood. The closed door was rough and thick, made of ill-planed oak There was no bell, and if there had been a k.n.o.b, it was no longer there. Quent thought of knocking but was struck by the absurdity of the gesture. He put up his hand and felt the marks made by the axe that had originally fas.h.i.+oned this door from a single ma.s.sive trunk. When he pressed lightly it easily fell backward, as if someone had recently propped it in place. He had the sensation that he was being watched.
He had a tomahawk, and a skinning knife. His long gun would have attracted too much attention, and besides, no Christian Huron from one of the missions would have such a weapon. He took the knife from his belt.
It was full dark now, and the waning moon had not yet risen, but there was enough starlight for him to see that behind its deceptive facade, Pere Antoine's house no longer existed. Like its neighbors it was a pile of stone and splintered, charred wood. Quent's glance roved over the debris; he couldn't shake the feeling that it was somehow wrong. This place looked as if someone had deliberately wreaked further destruction after the English bombs and sh.e.l.ls had done their work. In the far corner there was a gleam of light low down near the stone chimney breast that was still intact above what had been the fireplace.
Quent picked his way toward it, unable to shake the feeling that he should be careful not to cause any loud or unexpected noise. Jesus b.l.o.o.d.y Christ! For all his care he'd nearly walked straight into a beam. It lay at a precipitous angle from a remaining corner of the roof to what would have been the hearth. It was as thick around as he was, and black with the smoke of more than the most recent fire. Had to have been one of the original ceiling joists. He glanced up. The dark was deeper where a large wedge of masonry hung between a section of the house's north wall and the top of the beam he'd almost dislodged.
Despite the gloom, he could still make out the s.h.i.+mmer that had attracted him to this part of the ruined room. He knelt down, stretched his hand toward the source of the glow, and touched something hard and cold. A large golden goblet of some sort, set with what were probably precious stones about the rim. Beneath it there was a flat golden plate, also bejewelled. No ordinary looter would have left such booty behind.
”Not things a brown robe should have, neya?”