Moonlit Desire

by Carolann Camillo

  The maneuver, carried out with speed and cunning, remained bloodless. As the sun rose over the mountains, bringing further illumination, she witnessed defeat in the postures of the men who lay still, no doubt terrified of being massacred. Horses galloped off or were led away; weapons were hastily collected.

  The chief came forward, escorted by two of the older men, both of whom held muskets at the ready. He approached Rive and spoke with him. Rive pulled his prisoner to his feet and turned him over to one of the braves. Then he and the chief walked among the defeated men, searching their faces.

  Dawn gave way to morning, but even in the growing light, Catherine could not distinguish one man from another. Some wore buckskin, others homespun shirts, breeches and knee-length boots. Certainly, Flint must be one of them. If so, she could not readily identify him.

  She could see that Rive had no better luck. After examining the last of the men, he shook his head in anger.

  “We have no quarrel with you,” he called out. “We wish you no ill will. Who will speak for you?”

  No one answered.

  “If you cooperate, every man will leave here unharmed. I’ll ask once more. Who will be your spokesman?”

  Finally, someone shouted, “I will.”

  Rive approached a young, sturdily built man being held at knifepoint. He clasped him about the arm and pulled him to his feet.

  “What is your name?”

  “Benton, sir.” The answer came in a quavering voice.

  “Where is Flint?”

  There was a long pause, as if the man weighed the advisability of answering.

  “He must have led you here,” Rive said. “Am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “But he waits at a safe distance. Does it make sense to owe allegiance to a man who would let others take risks while he hides from danger?”

  “Well ... no ...” Benton stammered. “He swore that, at the first sight of ’im, ’is wife would be killed.”

  “Mrs. Flint will come to no harm. As neither you nor any of those other men have been harmed. I give you my word.”

  Then someone shouted, “Tell him.”

  “That is good advice.”

  Benton nodded. “Mr. Flint is waitin’ maybe a quarter hour’s ride from here.”

  “How will he know of the success or failure of your mission?”

  “I was to give ’im a signal.”

  “What kind of signal?”

  The man paused a moment. “After things got quiet, I was to fire two shots, then wait a minute, or thereabouts, and fire one more. Then wait the same amount of time and fire the last two.”

  “Your signal will bring Flint here?”

  Benton gave a coarse laugh. “No, sir. He ain’t comin’ here ’til I ride out and bring ’im the final word.”

  “Well, then, we must not keep him waiting.”

  Rive fired his pistol then quickly primed the weapon and fired again and again until he had duplicated the five gunshots. Then he spoke at length to one of the Indians—words Catherine could not hear. Even if she could, she was still powerless to influence the course of events. Darkness crushed her spirit, and she slumped against a tree. Flint’s imminent demise brought her no joy. She could not bear to think of its consequences.

  Two horses were brought to Rive. He mounted and indicated for Benton to follow.

  “Don’t do anything foolish. I shall be close enough to keep you in sight.” Then, with Benton in the lead, Rive and a small complement of Indians rode out of the village.

  Chapter 16

  Her energy spent, Catherine paced inside her lodge too disturbed and restless to remain still for more than a few minutes. She had no concept of how much time had elapsed since Rive left, only that the pale sky, visible through the opening in the roof, hinted at an early morning hour. The food Louis had brought shortly after escorting her back to the lodge lay untouched in bowls on the floor. Even the sight of it sent her stomach into rebellion.

  Gray Wolf once again guarded her door. That much she could see through the tiny chink in the deerskin. To keep her mind from spinning gruesome scenarios, she had taken to counting her steps. After every twenty paces, she went to the doorway to spy. An eerie calm had settled over the village. Even the children, normally active and boisterous, appeared subdued. Their elders, at least those within her cramped view, went quietly about their morning tasks. She suspected they, too, were drained from the earlier events.

  Her first hint Rive and the Indians had returned was a piercing yell. Catherine hurried to the doorway. Gray Wolf still stood sentry, although not in such close proximity as before. Making a slightly larger opening expanded her view, and she glimpsed the remaining Indians, who gathered and chattered excitedly. Then, as they rushed forward, the commotion increased to an ear-splitting level.

  Emboldened by Gray Wolf’s semi-abandonment of his post, she allowed herself an even larger slit from which to spy. Staying out of sight, she waited for the assemblage to pass back into view. When they did, she immediately spotted Rive. However, she could see nothing of Jeremy Flint. Had they killed him on the very spot where he waited for word from his cohort? Whether captured or killed, he would have set into motion the event she feared most: her father’s imprisonment and her mother’s destitution. She felt despair even greater than when she had agreed to marry him.

  As the morning waned and the heat began to escalate, Rive came to her lodge. Completely drained, Catherine sat on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. He looked weary, and when she searched his face for signs of triumph, she found none.

  “Is he dead?”

  He shook his head. “Your husband has much to answer for. Before he forfeits his life, he must face every accuser.”

  “You mean a trial?”

  “No, at least not in the way you think, but an accounting. He sees no evil in his past deeds.”

  He drew Catherine to her feet. “Come, we will walk for a while. You are owed an explanation, and now I shall give you one.”

  She stepped out into the bright sunshine. Light stabbed at her eyes and she raised a hand to shade them. As they crossed the village, she asked Rive where they held her husband prisoner.

  “He is in a lodge under guard. He won’t escape.”

  She didn’t ask if he had been in any way abused, although it would not have surprised her. Whatever his crime, he had sowed much hatred among these people. She could feel no pity for him.

  Rive walked with his usual brisk strides, and she had to hurry to keep pace. She had many questions but knew by now he would impart information only when he was ready.

  They proceeded in silence, walking beside each other until they reached the edge of the village. Then they entered the forest. Here, the density of the trees made it almost impossible for Catherine to see far ahead. Light turned to shadow and the crisp, cool air came almost as a shock. In the eerie quiet, only their footsteps and the occasional chirp of a bird, along with the quiet murmur of the river, broke the stillness.

  When Rive led the way onto a narrow path, she followed close behind. In spite of the coolness, moisture dotted her palms, her pulse quickened and her muscles tensed. Where was he leading her? Why must they go so far afoot before he was willing to shed light on the past? The forest appeared ever more mysterious and haunting in its beauty.

  Suddenly, she wished to turn back. “Rive,” she gasped, thoroughly unnerved. For the first time she addressed him by his given name.

  He turned around swiftly, his eyes scanning the abundant growth around them. Then he touched her reassuringly on the shoulder.

  “Are you afraid?”

  “Yes.”

  “There is nothing to fear. Few people come this way.”

  She did not confide that her dread grew not from their surroundings, but from what he would reveal. After her many questions, she was unprepared for the answers. And why bring her here? Why had he picked this isolated spot?

  They continued walking in s
ilence for some minutes. Then he held up his arm and stopped in a clearing where the sun spread a misty pool of light. It dappled Catherine’s cheek and somewhat demystified the area.

  “We can go no farther.” Rive stood by her side and pointed ahead. “It is a burial ground. It is forbidden to walk there.”

  Catherine’s gaze followed his outstretched arm. Feeling very much an intruder, she stood quietly, listening to the sound of the river that flowed somewhere beyond her sight. Whatever Rive’s thoughts, he kept them hidden for now. Death, she felt ever more certain, formed the core of his coming revelations and lay at the root of his hatred of Jeremy Flint.

  She recalled the night of her abduction. Unable to sleep, she had listened to the conversation between Rive and Louis. Louis had admonished him to believe that the dead were at peace. Perhaps she was soon to learn which dead.

  Rive took her hand and led her to the trunk of a fallen tree. They sat beside each other, and the minutes passed almost as if he had had a change of heart. Sunlight splashed warmth onto her back, dispelling some of the chill.

  “This is very difficult.” He leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. “I have not spoken of this to anyone since I was a boy and, even then, not in its entirety.”

  He stood and walked a few paces toward the burial ground, then returned to where she sat. “Do you come from a large family?”

  The query surprised her, and she could not tell if he sought to delay speaking of the past or if his family had some bearing upon it.

  “On the contrary. There is just my father and mother. There were two babes born before me, but they died in infancy. My uncle and aunt, along with my three young cousins, live in the far north of England. So we are exceedingly small in number.”

  He nodded. “So it is with the St. Clairs. I understand they were quite prolific at one time. Now all that remains are my uncle, André, and his family in Quebec, and Uncle Hubert in Paris.” He paused a moment, then seated himself beside her again.

  “When I was fourteen, I lived for a short while with André. Then he sent me to Paris to Hubert and his wife, who were childless.” He leaned his head back for a moment and a slight smile parted his lips. “Their task became twofold: to civilize me and provide for my education which, up until then, had been somewhat rudimentary. To everyone’s surprise, they succeeded in both endeavors. So it was deemed I would eventually enter the family business.

  “Time, however, exposed me as a restless and impatient fellow—like my father, everyone said. So it was decided that, upon completing my studies at the Sorbonne, I would study for a year in England, become proficient in the language and then enter a military college and devote my life to the service of France.”

  He paused, and his gaze shifted momentarily away from Catherine. “I am getting ahead of myself. In any event, my life during that time would hold no interest for you.”

  It should not, and yet it most certainly did. In the space of a little less than two weeks, she had come to accept the incontrovertible fact that everything about Rive St. Clair interested her.

  “For generations the St. Clairs made their living in the fur trade. My father was the youngest in the family, and he, my mother and I lived just outside of Montreal. We owned the trading post where Indians and trappers—men, like Louis, who lived in the wilderness—brought in beaver pelts in exchange for knives, bolts of cloth, needles, beads, even cooking pots. Muskets, of course, were very much in demand. The pelts, transported by river to André in Quebec, were in turn shipped to France and sold through the family firm run by Hubert. A very profitable enterprise, you might say.

  “Fortunately my father had a trusted employee. So when competition grew stiff in Canada, my father left him in charge and forged a relationship with the natives here. He made the journey each spring, and this suited his temperament well. Sitting all day in an airless room poring over account books was not for him.”

  Catherine understood that Rive must be very much like his father. She could not imagine him stuck away in a dusty cubbyhole totaling up the day’s receipts. Yes, the military sounded a much more suitable occupation. Given his participation in the war, he had clearly followed that course.

  “My mother died the year I turned eight,” he continued, his tone softened, perhaps, by her memory. “Shortly thereafter, I made the journey to this village for the first time with my father. We stayed for two months and brought our trade goods in three canoes. Always scrupulously fair in his dealings, my father was accepted by the Indians as their brother.”

  Catherine remembered the affection with which the natives had greeted Rive. At least now she better understood his close relationship with them.

  “We came every spring until my twelfth year. That last morning, we planned to leave for Montreal with enough beaver pelts to fill our canoes. I had just carried the last bundle down to the riverbank when I heard musket fire. It was just before dawn. A thick mist shrouded the river, so I never saw the men until they were upon us. I came to understand later they were a militia, organized in the colony, peopled with a few British soldiers and led by an army scout. They attacked without warning, emptying their guns into the old men, women and children, firing into the lodges. Anyone unable to escape perished.”

  He sat quietly for a moment, and Catherine could see the tension in his jaw. She waited for it to ease. “Today, you counted on them striking in exactly the same manner?”

  “Sixteen years ago, it was a very effective strategy. Yes, I counted on Flint’s memory. At any rate, we could not take the fight outside the village this morning. As you saw, Flint’s men were mounted and carried muskets or pistols, which most here do not possess. Believe me, it is unwise military practice, when you are on foot, to attack a mounted man who is carrying a fully loaded weapon. Once it is discharged ... well, you observed for yourself what happened.”

  She supposed they taught such tactics in a military academy. If so, Rive had learned his lessons well.

  They sat quietly for a while, and she wondered if he had imparted all he planned to divulge. He must not stop, for she guessed he had come very close to the reason for his hatred of Flint.

  Then just as she was about to urge him to continue, he said, “They went about their bloody business and set fire to the lodges. I heard someone shout my name. I turned toward the sound. My father materialized through a curtain of smoke. He was tall and powerfully built, and I wanted to believe he possessed the ability to single-handedly quell the slaughter. As I ran toward him, a man grabbed me by the shirt and held me. My father ordered him to release me. They were the last words he ever spoke. The man drew a pistol and shot him dead.”

  Catherine was shocked at his revelation. She could only imagine the horror of that day. Just as she would have wished to comfort the boy, she ached to place her hand over that of the man who sat beside her. She knew such a gesture to be unwise. Instead, she waited for Rive to proceed with his narrative.

  “I struck at the man who held me, but to no avail. ‘Yer worth ten pounds to me, boy, dead or alive,’ he told me. ‘Makes no difference to me how I collect it.’ Then a British soldier approached and addressed him as Flint. ‘See if you can get the boy to talk.’ ”

  Catherine’s fingers tensed, and her nails dug into her palms. She should have foreseen Jeremy Flint’s role in that nightmare. She turned toward Rive, but his gaze, once again, was focused on the burial ground.

  “Flint pulled out his knife. He held the point against my throat and asked me where the young men hid. At the time, I spoke just a little English, but enough to understand him. I told him they were not hiding. They had set out two days before to hunt for game.”

  Rive turned toward Catherine. “It is their custom to hunt for several weeks and bag enough game to see them through the winter. To fall short of food is to perish. Flint should have known. It’s common to all tribes. Perhaps he did know and didn’t care. Nevertheless, he accused me of lying and pressed the blade deeper. I thought he was going to
slit my throat.

  “Then a soldier dragged a young girl, who shook with terror, over to Flint. The chief’s granddaughter. The soldier ordered Flint to question her. The soldier took hold of me and, although I tried, I was not strong enough to break his grip. Then Flint ...”

  Rive shook his head. “You do not need to hear any more.”

  Catherine searched his face and saw the pain that opening this wound had inflicted. Tears gathered behind her lids and she blinked them away. “I want to hear it.”

  Rive crossed his arms over his chest and tipped his face toward the sun. He sat still for a long moment, his legs stretched out before him.

  “Then I will make it brief. He used the girl brutally. When he finished, he took his knife and brought it to where her hair swept back from her brow. I guessed what he had in mind. Somehow—maybe I was on the brink of madness—I managed to break the soldier’s grip and lunge at Flint. I grasped his hand, the one holding the knife. I was unable to drive the blade into his heart. It cut just below his jaw instead. Then someone delivered a tremendous blow to my head. Later, I was told it took many days before I regained my senses. Also, according to some of the survivors, Flint returned late in the night and made off with our three canoes crammed with beaver pelts.”

  After so harrowing a tale, Catherine could not bring herself to utter a sound. Minutes passed.

  Rive seemed disinclined to resume his tale. Nor did he make any move to return to the village.

  She was desperate to learn what had happened to him afterwards. “How did you come to be brought to your uncle’s home in Quebec?”

  Her query elicited the barest hint of a smile.

  “During my second year of living among this tribe, a French trapper arrived to spend part of an especially brutal winter with us. Upon talking to me, he professed knowledge of my family in Quebec. He had lived there in his earlier years. When spring arrived, I undertook a journey with him, a journey that saw me delivered to my Uncle André, and one that completely changed my life. The man I speak of was Louis, and he has remained a close family friend ever since.”