Part 49 (1/2)

Alors, echec to the black king, but only a temporary setback. ”I sent no one to kill you, Monsieur Shea. I had no idea that was the plan of the man who offered me the stones. But at least now I know they are truly as important as he said. Most of the Indians have deserted Onontio because of the stones. Is that not correct?”

Corm shrugged. ”Give me one good reason why Indians should fight and die in your white man's wars, Jesuite. Maybe they're just getting smarter.”

”Indians fight and die for scalps and captives and loot, Monsieur Shea. Unless something more important has been offered them. It is that thing that interests me. Do you know what it might be?”

”If I did, do you think I would tell you?”

Roget's fingers found the beads of the rosary that hung at his side. You have sent me a remarkable opportunity, Mere de Dieu. Grant that I make no error. ”You might, monsieur. If in return I could offer you something of equal, perhaps greater, value.”

”I don't trust you, Jesuite.” Corm's heart thundered in his chest. This was a white man's game, he knew that. The only thing he didn't know was if he were white enough to play it. ”If there's to be a trade, both sides have to see what's being offered.”

Endgame. To threaten white's king, black must expose his own. ”Your General Wolfe,” Roget began, ”he must meet General Montcalm if-”

”Wolfe's not my general.”

”Ah, but in this matter I believe he is. I have the feeling, Monsieur Shea, that like the Indians, you withhold your allegiance from Onontio in this contretemps. Is that not correct?”

”I'm half Indian, Jesuite. A metis, as you continue to remind me.”

”Indeed. So if your people do not on this occasion fight with their French allies, it must be because they wish the English to win. And if the English are to win, General Wolfe must meet the General Montcalm on the field of battle. Is that not true, Monsieur Shea? The military men inform us Quebec is a fortress, not a fort. It cannot be taken by the traditional siege en forme.”

”Even if what you say is true, what does it have to do with our trade?”

Roget felt a surge of triumph. The metis had committed himself. ”It has everything to do with it. Let us speak plainly, monsieur. If Wolfe does not get his battle, he must leave when winter approaches. On the other hand, to force Vaudreuil and Montcalm to fight, the English must threaten the Upper Town in such manner that our two reluctant warriors are convinced a battle is the only choice. To achieve that, the English troops must be not at Pointe-Levis or Ile d'Orleans, or wreaking havoc among the habitants in the countryside, or even swarming in the Lower Town. They must be up here where we are, ma.s.sed at the city's gates. Wolfe has already made a number of attempts to gain the heights, and been beaten back because he chose the wrong places to try his a.s.sault.”

Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grace. The beads slipped rapidly through Roget's fingers. The prayer to the Virgin was a thing happening automatically somewhere in his being, like the beating of his heart, or the breath entering and leaving his body. ”I can tell you the correct place. And you, Monsieur Shea, can tell General Wolfe.”

”And in return, Jesuite? What do I give you?”

The metis spoke very softly, but he had taken a step forward. Close enough now so Roget could see the vein that throbbed above Cormac Shea's scar. It was the only clue, but on the strength of it black must commit everything, the queen and both rooks. ”I already stated my request. I deal in knowledge. It is the only weapon I have with which to further the cause of G.o.d and His Holy Church. I wish, monsieur, to understand the power of the stones. What have the English promised the Indians in return for their staying out of this fight?”

”Canada.”

...et Jesus, le fruit de vos entrailles ... ”Please, repeat that. I believe you said-”

”I said that when the English win this war, they will give Canada to the Indians. They'll keep the land to the south where their colonies are now. Whites and reds will be separated. So they can both live in peace and follow their own ways and customs.”

Louis Roget loosed his hold on the rosary. His fingers were too slick with sweat to continue rolling the beads. He could barely speak for the force of the blood pounding in his ears. echec et mate. His victory was more complete than he could have imagined. With Canada finally lost to them, even the cretins in Versailles would see the need to concentrate all their energies on Louisiana and win back what they had lost in the Ohio Country. Why not? They would have plenty of help from the Indians. There was no way the English would honor this bargain. English settlers would flood Canada as soon as the French were no longer in control. And once they were betrayed, alors, the savages would be more ready than ever before to adopt the French cause as their own. Not just the Ohio Country, mon Dieu. Possibly the English colonies as well. New York and Pennsylvania and Virginia ... all of them, even perhaps the place they called New England, open to the Holy Faith.

”I'm waiting, Jesuite.”

”Waiting, Monsieur Shea?” Roget's voice sounded thin in his own ears. The enormity of it, the sheer audacity. Only saints dared so much. But saints were rewarded with a golden crown.

”Yes, for your side of the trade.”

”Bien sur ...” Roget brought himself back to the moment at hand. If the full glory of his vision was to be realized, there were things, however difficult and even distasteful, that he must do. ”Monsieur Shea, you know the place, the heights, called the Plains of Abraham? West of the city, near what before this bombardment were the gardens of the Convent School of the Ursulines.” He waited until he saw the other man nod. ”Very good. If you follow the cliff road past those gardens and past the plains you will come to a place above a cove called l'Anse au Foulon. That is where there is a path I'm told the laundresses sometimes-”

Corm shook his head. ”I am not interested in what you are told, Jesuite. Words aren't enough. Show me.”

Roget hesitated. The statue of Ste. Anne, the stained gla.s.s ... Eh bien, surely having given him so much, the Mother of G.o.d would protect these treasures. And if not, so be it. The ways of G.o.d were not the ways of man. He understood now why he had been forced to watch the sad and sinful event of the wounded falcon's suicide. ”Come with me, Monsieur Shea. I will show you the place I mean.”

Corm watched Roget swing his long cape around his shoulders. Then, just before they left: ”Jesuite, one more thing. If you are trying to trick me, I will take your scalp while you are still alive, then cut out your heart and eat it.” Maybe not Cmokman enough for diplomacy, but Anis.h.i.+nabeg enough for that.

”I do not doubt it, Monsieur Shea. Now, let us go.”

SAt.u.r.dAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 1759.

THE ST. LAWRENCE, ABOVE QUeBEC.

It was the darkest reaches of the night. Dawn was a few hours away, and the last sliver of an old moon had already disappeared. The river was swollen by the torrential rains of the past three days, the ebbing tide running heavier than usual. The longboats moved with it, and with the rowers' instincts. The oarlocks were padded, and on Wolfe's orders the drummer boys who usually beat the stroke were silent.

The sh.o.r.eline was unguarded but there were sentries on the cliffs. One of them thought he heard something and squinted to see better in the darkness. Nothing at first. Then ... yes, a black-on-black shadow, and the sound of water lapping against oars. ”Qui vive?”

The men in the boats heard the call and froze. If they were discovered, French gunners the entire length of the cliffs would pick them off from overhead. There was no way the longboats could outrun them or hide.

The sentry waited for a reply. None came. The G.o.d-cursed damp of the endless rain had all but closed his throat. He cleared it and tried again, louder this time. ”Qui vive?”

Wolfe was in the lead boat. He nodded to the young captain with the Seventy-eighth Highlanders, who spoke perfect French. ”La France et vive le roi!” he shouted. Wolfe was pleased with his forethought. He'd identified enough French speakers among his troops to scatter them throughout the longboats. But if a pa.s.sword was demanded ... Quentin Hale was in Wolfe's boat, and the American had his long gun to his shoulder trying to sight the French soldier so far overhead.

The sentry on the heights did not trouble himself about pa.s.swords, he only thought about how empty his belly was and how long it had been so. He felt a surge of relief. Merci, mon Dieu. For days now they had been promised a convoy of supplies from Montreal. He sprinted along the clifftop to the next post. ”Ce sont nos gens avec les provisions. Laissez-les pa.s.ser.” His voice reached the British on the water as the faintest of echoes. It was enough. They rowed on.

Moments later Wolfe's longboat and three others had landed at l'Anse au Foulon. Four others missed the landing and were carried farther down, but there was no time to worry about them now. ”Mr. Hale”-a whisper so faint Quent had to strain to hear it though he was standing right beside the general-”where is your friend's route?”

Some of the men had already started to clear a ravine that had been filled with scree and tree trunks. Corm had been very clear. That wasn't the footpath. ”The ravine's a feint, meant to s.h.i.+ft attention from the real thing. Seven long strides farther on. Easy to miss, and as steep as the way up Big Two, but it'll take you to the top.”

Quent hadn't come with Corm to see the place for fear they'd be spotted and the alarm raised about interest in the Foulon cove. The only difficult part was convincing Wolfe that Corm was absolutely to be trusted; in the end he convinced himself. Quent figured it was the Englishman's desperation that made him accept Corm's a.s.surance of a way up the cliffs. Time was running short, winter was coming, and Admiral Saunders would insist the fleet leave. Besides, whether or not he took Quebec wasn't as important to the chinless general as that he got the quick and glorious death he craved. Sick as he was as often as he was, maybe it was understandable.

Quent paced off the distance and studied the portion of the cliff he faced. It was exactly as Corm had described, a narrow declivity that you could think of as a footpath if you used your imagination. Climbed almost straight up. That's what had made Corm think of the way they used to take up Big Two when they were boys. Impossibly steep, but if you were surefooted, you could do it. Except at Shadowbrook there were no enemy soldiers lying in wait when you got to the top.

The first team had already been chosen, sixteen of the most nimble redcoats led by a Colonel Howe from the Fifty-eighth Light Infantry. Howe was almost as big as Quent himself, and equally as agile. He and his men appeared at Quent's side. A faint drizzle had started but there was no point in waiting. If the heavy rain returned, they hadn't a chance. Howe nodded. His lead men fixed their bayonets and the climb began.

There were no enemy soldiers at the top of the Foulon path, only a small detachment housed in a few tents. They had posted no lookout, or if they had, he had deserted his post. The fight was over quickly. When it was done Quent saw one of the redcoats use the tip of his b.l.o.o.d.y bayonet to take a scalp. Apparently he'd developed a taste for it. Howe came over, cleaning his musket, not even breathing hard. ”Well done, Mr. Hale.”

”Well done yourself, Colonel Howe. But one of the French soldiers got away, I saw him running toward the town.” Quent touched his long gun. ”He was out of sight before I could get off a shot. Do you want me to go after him?”

”I think not, Mr. Hale. The whole point of the thing is to get them out here, isn't it? Now, time to invite the others.”

The colonel walked to the edge of the cliff. He struck a flint and flashed a signal to the general and the men on the beach.

By the time Wolfe and two hundred more soldiers stood on the heights it was four o'clock and a false dawn lightened the sky. The only resistance was a battery of French guns shooting ineffectually from some distance away. Wolfe sent Howe and his men to silence it. In the cove below, the longboats kept landing, and wave after wave of soldiers were sent clambering up the path.

There were more showers, but so far not the downpour they all feared. Meanwhile Wolfe had reconnoitered and chosen a place to await the enemy. He gave the signal. The men formed up with more confusion than usual, finding their places according to the familiar companions either side. Finally, as silently as it was possible for such a large body to move, Wolfe's army marched on Quebec.

By the time the sun rose, seven British battalions were drawn up in battle order across the open ground facing the Rue St. Louis, two leagues from the town's western wall. Five more battalions were on the river or in the cove, taking their turn to scurry two by two up the path to the heights. A twenty-man guard protected the open ground at the top of the climb, but farther on toward the town sharpshooters harried them from the surrounding woods. They were mostly Indians, Quent figured, and possibly a few Canadians, but as yet there was no sign of Montcalm's army. Maybe the soldier Quent had seen run from the encampment atop the Foulon cove, hadn't made it to the town. Never mind. The British would announce their presence soon enough. A pair of stalwart sailors had managed to manhandle a couple of bra.s.s six-pounders up to the heights. Quent saw the cannon in place and knew he couldn't wait any longer. ”The hospital, General.”

”Ah, yes. As we discussed. Take ten men and go, Mr. Hale. Please give my compliments to the Mother Superior. You may tell her the nuns and their patients can count on my protection.”