by Eric Flint
Rogers began to respond, but Edward held up his hand. “If I were to answer according to my proper station,” he said, “I would declare that you, sir, were in no position to make any comment about who I choose as a part of my entourage. And if I were to answer as a patriot and a soldier, I would feel obliged to point out that French hands are by no means clean as regards atrocities and outrages.”
D’Egremont appeared ready to answer, but Edward continued. “But this is not the time for accusations or hauteur; it is the time for us to find common ground against a more dangerous foe. You can either escort me—escort all of us—to your commander; or we will return whence we came, and we will deal with the native threat on our own. It is your choice, Lieutenant; be sure it is a wise one.”
D’Egremont did not seem happy with the decision; but after a few tense seconds, he decided what most subordinate officers do in situations of great moment—that it was something best left to those of higher authority.
Without another word, he bowed again, and gestured for the British entourage to make its way unmolested into the French camp.
Johnson Hall
From the balcony of the house, Molly could see that warriors were passing Johnson Hall by. Some of them looked up the hill as they passed along the trail to the south of the stone boundary, but most did not. She did not pick out Guyasuta among them. If he was in the company of this war-band—no, she thought: let us call it what it is: an army—he did not distinguish himself in any way.
She did not know if she was imagining it, or if her changed senses actually perceived it, but there was a sort of aura around the men who streamed eastward along the well-marked trail. It was not the raw anger or bloodlust of the warpath, nor the focus of a brave moving stealthily through the forest. It was, if anything, a sense of despair.
When the stream of braves had nearly completely passed, a runner came up to the house with the news that a messenger was at the gate.
By the time Molly came down the hill, accompanied by more than the usual number of escorts, the messenger had been admitted within the stone fence. She could see that his weapons and possessions had been left outside, with two warriors watching over them.
“What is your message, little brother?” she asked without introduction.
“I speak for the war-chief Guyasuta,” he answered. “You are the wife of the chief Warraghiyagey?”
“You are at my longhouse, warrior. Give me your message or leave.”
He did not flinch from her gaze.
“My chief commands me to say: you have chosen the whites over your own people, but you have received a gift that permits you to defy him. He does not choose to demand your obedience at this time, but after he destroys the white war-band that gathers against him he will return and demand his due.
“Still, he is not without judgment or mercy. Should you choose to submit to him now, he will reward you richly. But if you do not, he will be most harsh when he returns. He swears this by the gods of earth and sky, and by the Great Spirit, who calls on him to make crooked ways straight and wrong things right.”
“Is that all he has to say?”
“It is all I am commanded to speak, sister.”
She felt her hands forming into fists, but she slowly, deliberately unclenched them. “Return to your war-chief this message: that I reject his mercy and spurn his judgment. He cannot know what the Great Spirit intends for him, or any of us, red or white. Let him follow whatever path he chooses, but we do not bow to him here, now or ever.”
She turned on her heel and began walking slowly up the hill. She felt angry in her mind and awkward in her step, but was determined.
“He will destroy you,” the messenger said to her retreating back.
She stopped, and deliberately turned to face the young brave, standing defiantly before a number of men who looked ready to strike him down.
“Did he command you to threaten me?”
“I only tell you—I only tell you what I know, sister. Our war-chief hears the words of the Great Spirit and chooses this moment to drive the whites from our land. He says that it is our last chance, and it will not come again. I believe him.”
She wanted to reply. She also knew that with a gesture, the messenger would be slain where he stood. He must have known it as well; his weapons and his gear were out of his reach.
No one would fault her for meeting his affront this way.
“Go,” she said at last. “And do not return.”
Chapter 44
We could resolve this with a handshake
Prince Edward could not easily conceal his discomfort at being surrounded by French and native troops. The Marquis de Montcalm had been in the British encampment a few days earlier, and had seemed completely at ease; indeed, in conversation with himself and General Amherst, he had been extremely defiant, asserting the identity of the servants of His Most Christian Majesty.
And here he was, placing his hand in the lion’s mouth. For every Frenchman in the New World, there were ten Britons—but right here, right now, the only person of royal birth was at the mercy of his nation’s sworn enemy. Without question, Montcalm could order him seized and detained, his men possibly tortured or killed and he would be helpless to prevent it.
He thought of what his father would have done. As Prince of Wales, his father had to make his own way in the face of anger and derision from the king and the court; he had gathered his own supporters and had planted his own flag, never wavering as long as he lived.
“I shall be your cupbearer,” Montcalm said, bringing him a pewter goblet of wine and offering a bow, before taking his own seat. Captain Revere stood behind him, but Rogers and others remained outside the Marquis’ tent. For his part, Montcalm was alone, with neither aides nor servants. Outside, the heat hung heavy, and the interior of his tent was scarcely cooler.
“I could be no better served,” Edward said. “I assume you know why I have come.”
“You want to achieve where General Wolfe fell short. Forgive me for being less than optimistic, Your Highness. What exactly do we have to talk about?”
“Danger has crept closer,” Edward answered. “We understand that Guyasuta’s forces have bypassed Johnson Hall and are descending the Mohawk Valley. We need your help.”
“We have our own concerns.”
“Of course. But if we are destroyed, Monsieur, you will be next. Our mutual opponent does not discriminate. All whites are his enemy.”
“You are correct, of course.” Montcalm leaned back and sipped wine from his own cup. “We are not making aggressive moves toward your territory because of it.”
“Other than encamping here, I suppose.”
“I hardly think that is aggressive, Highness, and I would beg you to consider your words carefully if you seek my help.”
“I beg your pardon, my lord Marquis—except that this is the sovereign territory of the Colony of New York, not some untenanted land to the west where our respective kings dispute. So let us not mince words. Still,” he hurried on, before Montcalm could interrupt, “I do not seek to anger you—as you observe, I do wish your help. Further, I seek something more than a temporary suspension of hostilities. I seek an alliance.”
“An alliance? Between Britain and France?”
“No. Between the British plantations and the French colonies. A permanent, lasting arrangement—not just for the present threat, but for the future.”
“We are at war, Highness. It is not up to us—”
“Yes, it is, my lord. It very much is up to us. You and I. Right here, right now. You must have reached the same conclusion we have: our mother countries, our kings, and our rivalries are all beyond the sundered borders. Despite my . . . youth, I am effectively the sovereign of my country. You are the most prominent leader of yours. We could resolve this with a handshake, two men of gentle birth giving their word and their bond.”
Montcalm did not respond at first; he appeared to be taking stock of the young prince who sat
before him.
A few months ago, he had been standing on the Heights of Abraham when a luminous fog drifted past and made him believe, for a few moments, that he was back on the battlefield of Piacenza. It was the effect of the sundering, the comet’s transit, that changed the world. He’d heard of many such events from that day.
Our kings are beyond our sundered borders.
“You are suggesting something momentous, Highness. I cannot speak for all of the French colonies in the New World, though I concede that I could reasonably exercise authority over New France and perhaps the Maritimes . . . do you speak for all Britons everywhere? All along the Atlantic seaboard, and throughout the Caribbean?”
“I am their king.”
“Uncrowned.”
“I daresay that is the least of the obstacles we would both face. A suitable ceremony could be performed.”
“Your Archbishop of Canterbury is unavailable.”
“So is Westminster Abbey. But it seems to me that you have a clergyman of that title resident in Québec.”
Edward heard a sharp intake of breath from Captain Revere, but to his credit, the colonial did not say a word.
“You—” Montcalm set his wine cup on a small folding table beside him. “You would request—you would permit a Catholic archbishop to crown you king of—king of North America? Isn’t that a violation of the Test Act, among a number of other statutes and proclamations?”
“It is, but I would dispense with it by a royal decree. What is more, it would be a gesture of goodwill to everyone in New France at least. Catholic or Protestant or Mussulman or Jew, it should no longer matter.”
“Your people would be unlikely to accept this—a Catholic archbishop from another realm settling the crown on their new king’s head.”
“He would not be from ‘another realm,’ Monsieur. I would hope that he would be the senior Catholic authority in my realm. You ask if my people would accept such an arrangement. What about yours?”
“You ask me—all of us—to swear allegiance to you as king?”
“Yes.”
Montcalm took a moment, gathering himself. “I thought I made my feelings clear on these matters at our last interview, Highness.”
“You did, and you reiterated them to General Wolfe privately afterward. I have thought about those feelings and realized that in order to convince you that this course is the best one would require an extraordinary gesture. I am making such a gesture. I do not ask you to give up your language, your religion, or your essential culture. But I dare to dream that in time—perhaps not in your lifetime, perhaps not even in mine—those things might all grow closer. I do not know if Massachusetts-Bay would ever enjoy camaraderie with New France—” he turned and glanced at Revere, who was staring straight ahead, trying to contain some measure of fury—“but the two places might find some commonality of purpose. I believe that we must.”
“We would retain our language.”
“Of course.”
“And the Church.”
“Yes, though I imagine you will have to decide what the absence of Pope—and Rome—will mean. Doctrinally, your faith is up to you.”
“Your more . . . assertive subjects may have something to say about that,” Montcalm said, glancing at Revere.
Prince Edward didn’t turn to look behind him, but he nodded. “Of course. It will be difficult for everyone.”
“I would like to think, Captain,” Prince Edward said as they rode southward, “that you would welcome this overture of peace.”
“It is not my place to offer praise or criticism,” Revere answered.
“Even if I solicit it?”
“Your Highness gives me a voice of authority that is beyond my station. But if it is my place, sir. I would say that this is a reckless course, and in many quarters it would be viewed as an affront.”
“Those are strong words.”
“Your Highness did command that I speak.”
“And speak you did. But is not peace better than war?”
“Honor trumps peace, Your Highness. And so does blasphemy.”
“Blasphemy?”
“The Popish faith has been the enemy of the people of God for a hundred and fifty years on this continent. To permit a Catholic to place a crown on your head—” Revere sighed. “It is scarcely to be imagined.”
“What do you expect, Revere? If this—all of this—is the world there is, then surely there will have to be a place for French Catholics in it.”
“Without a pope, what does Your Highness expect they can do?”
“I imagine they will have to create a pope somehow—I am not intimately familiar with the process by which popes are created. There is some sort of—some sort of council, I believe. Perhaps they will choose the Québecois archbishop—in which case, so to the horror of the New England Puritans, it may be a pope who crowns me.”
The messenger stood at attention as Amherst read the message, then tucked it into a sleeve and drew out his spyglass. He scanned the western horizon, then lowered the glass and turned to Wolfe.
“They will be here by sunup,” he said. “I see no sign of them, and no indication of fire, but I rely on our scouts.” He saluted the messenger and dismissed him.
“Are they greater in number?”
“Overall, yes. But not all of them will arrive tomorrow. Still, Guyasuta has attracted followers—and servants—from many disaffected tribes. I don’t know if he will be able to keep them ordered once they are all together, but when they do, his numbers will be far greater than our own.”
“If so, some good shot and powder from well-trained troops should be enough to hold them off.”
“And whatever unearthly powers he commands—or directs—will give them an advantage. I expect every man to do his best, General, but I fear that it will not be enough.”
“And the French will sit idly by, and watch us be overwhelmed,” Wolfe said. “Our prince must realize the fruitlessness of seeking an alliance with them.”
“He has not given up hope.”
“He should,” Wolfe said. “Montcalm will not realize until too late that he can no more stand without us than we can without him.”
“We can hope that he changes his mind,” Amherst answered. “His Highness placed his hand in the lion’s mouth—”
“His Highness,” Wolfe answered, sniffing, “is young, and untrained, and idealistic. He sees a different future than any practical man can easily embrace.”
“Have you spoken those words to the prince?”
“No. Of course not.”
“I think he might welcome such plain speaking,” Amherst said, scarcely smiling—though his sarcastic tone seemed to go unnoticed by Wolfe.
“In the morning,” Wolfe said, “every man will do his duty—even the prince. God will determine the outcome.”
“Unless God Himself is on the other side of the barrier and has left us to fend for ourselves.”
“General?”
“Nothing, General Wolfe. You’re right, I suppose. No soldier can know what will happen when battle is joined.”
In the heat of the summer night, Amherst stood on the hill where his command tent was placed and looked over the encamped British forces. In the dark, trained veterans and raw recruits and potentially unreliable colonials all looked the same—groups of shadows gathered around their campfires, taking whatever comfort they could before a battle.
Amherst was reminded of the Iliad, in which the poet had described the watchfires of the Greek soldiers as stars. It was easier for a commander to rely on such a metaphor, distancing himself from the actual living men who would fight tomorrow, and many of whom would die. He had ordered men to their deaths before—but who could know who would live and who would die?
If God was watching, He would surely know. But He might indeed be beyond the Sundering.
Chapter 45
New York
Admiral Boscawen straightened up from the table, rubbing his lower back for a mome
nt. He had been bent over studying the diagram for quite some time, and, much as he hated to admit it, he was no longer as limber as he’d been in earlier years.
“You really think you can make this?” he asked, frowning.
Messier made a little expressive shrug, in a very Gallic manner. “Make it? Certainly—even easily.”
He tapped the center of the diagram. It was quite large, four feet by three feet, so he had to lean over in order to do it. “It looks complex, and to a degree it is, but no more than an organ or a loom. You could consider it a combination of both, if you will.”
Boscawen’s lips twisted into a little grimace. Combination. To him, the machine depicted in the diagram looked like the bizarre product of a mating between an organ and a loom. There was something vaguely disturbing, almost obscene, about the thing.
In the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a quick smile coming and going on the face of Mademoiselle LaGèndiere. She’d deny it, but he was sure that she shared a similar apprehension about the device. Uncertainty, at least; if not outright doubt—even though she’d apparently been the one mainly responsible for designing it. According to Messier, she’d been working on it whenever she could find the time, ever since the encounter with the revenants at Port Maria two months earlier.
By now, it was clear to Boscawen that when it came to practical applications of magic if not theory, the young Frenchwoman was the dominant partner in her relationship with Messier. She was adept at disguising the fact, and the British admiral doubted if Messier realized it himself, but fact it remained, nonetheless.
“The real question,” Messier continued, “is whether the device will work at all.”
“At least, as intended,” qualified LaGèndiere. She leaned over, scrutinizing the drawing. “There’s no question that it can and does produce commotion in the elemental forces. We tested a smaller and simpler model just yesterday and . . . ”