Finally freed, he sat quietly and listened. Sweat ran down his face. He sucked in air with shallow breaths while he planned his next step, eyes never leaving the doorway. The guard must still be outside, suspecting nothing. Flint gathered up the leather strips and selected one whose length appeared sufficient to use as a garrote. Then he came to his feet. Calling upon all the skill he had acquired as a scout, he soundlessly approached the doorway.
A narrow band of light shone beside the ragged edge of deerskin. Staying close to the inner wall, he peered through the slit. To succeed, he must overpower the guard without being observed; therefore, he was forced to take a dangerous risk. Without hesitation, he slightly enlarged the opening. He noticed activity at the river. Then he silently changed position to spy from the other side. He saw no one close by.
He wrapped the ends of the leather thong around his hands and pulled it taut. Then he launched himself outside. With raised arms, he brought the garrote over the guard’s head and drew it against his throat, twisting it into a noose. As he tightened the noose, he pulled the guard backwards into the lodge.
The Indian clawed at the thong and made an unsuccessful attempt to dislodge it. His choking sounds encouraged Flint. Deprived of air, the Indian was unable to sound an alarm. Flint tightened the noose further, and a moment later the guard fell to his knees, then onto his side, where he lay motionless.
Flint paused, listened and waited as long as he dared before slipping outside. Crouching, he walked quickly, and in less than a minute gained the shelter of the trees. He wondered when someone would notice his absence. Soon, if his newfound luck soured. He broke into a run.
Immediately, he began laying a false trail. The terrain became steeper, and he continued to climb, snapping small branches off trees and treading heavily, deliberately leaving evidence of his passage. Eventually he would head for the river. Once near, he must take care to leave no visible sign.
He maintained an exhausting pace. Branches lashed his back; stones cut into the soles of his feet. When a searing pain shot through his chest, he stopped and paused for breath. He dared not sit for fear he might never rise again. Instead, he leaned against a tree trunk, gasping for air.
With luck, he had an even chance of survival. Bolstered by this belief, he allowed his thoughts to turn toward the future. With St. Clair dogging him, he would once again have to start life anew. That would necessitate selling his home in Tarrytown and resettling elsewhere, perhaps London. Why not? He relished the amusements of that city. There he could continue to lead the kind of privileged life he had enjoyed for the past sixteen years.
He remembered that first year when he sold the stolen pelts and moved to New York City. He had taken care to observe how men of means comported themselves. He refined his speech and learned how to dress impeccably. His life was comfortable; still, he was not satisfied. He kept a sharp eye out for vulnerable enterprises, either poorly run or plagued by bad luck. Those that were ripe to be plucked by a shrewd businessman. His small infusion of cash was always welcome and, once established as a partner, he exploited every weakness. Eventually, after he managed to take control, he would offer a pittance to buy the concern outright. His offer was almost always accepted. That was how he had acquired his first ship, West Wind. He chuckled inwardly as he recalled how he had arranged to have the ship pirated and its cargo stolen. He’d made a tidy profit. On the brink of disaster, the owners were eager to sell. Yes, he had coveted the West Wind, the same ship that delivered Catherine to him in New York.
Thoughts of Catherine, and the risk he had taken to once again possess her, jolted him back to the present. Was she gone from him forever? Perhaps, but only if he wished it. If he still desired her, he felt certain he could find her again. On the other hand, if he chose divorce, he could enjoy seeing her and her family suffer. He laughed softly. Either way, he would break her spirit.
He pushed himself away from the tree and listened for the sound of footfalls. Hearing none, he struck out again at a brisk pace. As he continued to climb, he thought it best to traverse the mountain before doubling back toward the river.
Evening approached and clouds gathered. Keeping up a steady pace, even after night closed around him, he managed to cover more ground. Finally, having pushed himself almost beyond human limit, he could no longer ignore the pressure in his chest and the fatigue in his leg muscles. He saw a bed of ferns and dropped into them. He must rest, if only for a few minutes.
He awoke to the sound of rain in the treetops. Dawn had not yet broken, and darkness still shrouded the forest. A low mist clung to the ground; the strong scent of pine needles hung in the air. He sat up with a jolt when he realized he had been asleep, perhaps for hours. He cursed himself. With stiff limbs, he struggled to his feet and set off again. His mouth was so dry that he could barely swallow. Obstacles loomed in his path: loose stones, fallen branches, exposed roots, jutting rocks. Gray-black clouds churned across the sky, and the ground had turned sodden, making it difficult to gain purchase.
An animal cried out. Or was it an animal? He knew the Indians mimicked those sounds and used them as signals. When the cries grew louder, he became alarmed. Certainly, by now, his escape had been noted. St. Clair, and who knew how many Indians, must be almost on his heels. By wasting time, Flint had lost his advantage. In spite of the pain gripping his body, he pushed himself harder.
A flash of lightning split the sky, followed by a crashing roar of thunder. He heard the river gush far below but could not spot it through the gloom. Twice he fell, and pain tore through his knees. He wiped the wet hair from his eyes and fought his body’s overpowering need for rest.
He became disoriented. By the time he saw the two dozen or so Indians and St. Clair, it was too late. They had cut off his escape on three sides, their cries loud and persistent. Would they kill him on the spot? He had outwitted the natives before and could again.
Now he saw the river coursing beneath the cliff. It gave off a surging sound as it sped overland. Would he survive a drop of perhaps two hundred feet? It was either that or capture. He decided to risk it.
He stepped to the edge of the cliff and did not wait for his pursuers to charge. Keeping his body straight, he leaped out over the edge. His fall started well. Then his body twisted and he tried to right it. All sense of balance deserted him. When he hit the river, his head and back took the brunt. The incredible force snapped his neck with a distinct crack. It was the last sound he heard before a final darkness engulfed him.
* * * *
Catherine awakened with a start to weak morning light and Rive staring down at her. She had not heard him enter her lodge but had sensed his presence. His hair and clothes were wet; his eyes bored into hers with anger.
“What is it?” She could think of nothing she might have done to provoke his wrath.
He kept his hands clenched at his sides. Then, without a word, he raised one and opened his fingers. The broken pieces of a clay bowl fell onto the bed.
She sat up. “I don’t understand.”
“I think you do.” His voice held an undercurrent of foreboding. If he had not once pledged to ensure her safety, she would have been afraid. Slowly, she shook her head.
“What do you not understand?”
Again, she searched her memory in vain for some recent transgression. “If you are looking for an explanation, I cannot give you one.”
With his finger, he sifted though the shards of clay. “Do you recognize these?”
His words made no sense.
“They are pieces of an ordinary vessel. I have seen many here. Are you accusing me of breaking it?” His reaction to such a middling concern seemed excessive and unreasonable.
“Ah, I knew you would remember.”
She looked into his eyes, and the coldness in them frightened her. “Why do you place such value on it?” Then her mind cleared. “That is not what troubles you.”
He nodded. “The vessel is of no worth. It is the use you made of it that I mu
st settle between us.”
She stared at him.
“Did he plant the seed in your mind? Or did it grow from your own need of him?”
Him. He could only be speaking of Flint. “What has happened? Tell me.” Her voice rose, agitated. “Please do not speak to me in riddles.”
She saw the slightest shift in his expression as if he were weighing the truth of her purported ignorance. Then the moment passed and with it his uncertainty.
“Someone provided your husband the means of escape.”
Anxiety stabbed at her chest. “How is it possible? I left him securely bound.”
“Did you?”
His cold tone made her cringe.
“The bowl from which he was given water served to provide the means.” He kept his voice low. “This bowl. It was placed far away from him. Someone shattered it for him. It made a very effective tool to cut through his bonds. He then used them to attack the guard. Mercifully, he survived.”
Catherine became alarmed. Now she remembered her husband’s entreaty that she leave the vessel within his reach.
“He begged for water. It was a simple request. I saw no harm in it.”
“Did you love him that much?”
“Love him? I did not love him at all.” She was on the verge of tears.
At her revelation, a surprised look crossed Rive’s face. “Yet you helped him.”
“Not by design. It was nothing more than an act of charity. When he asked for water, I could not refuse. I offered him no other assistance. Do you not see? Had I done so, I would be with him now.”
“That is one fate I believe you would not wish to share.”
She let out a long breath. It took a moment for his words to give meaning. “He’s dead, then?”
“Yes.”
She wanted to feel relief, but her family’s circumstances rendered it impossible. Still, in all truth, she knew Flint had not deserved to live.
“Did you kill him?”
“He died, but not by any man’s hand. We found him downriver with his neck broken. Perhaps we should have left him as carrion. Instead, we buried him.”
An act of benevolence, from a man who had every right to withhold it. She waited for him to say what he intended to do with her. Since that was now on her mind, she suspected it must also occupy his. There was no longer any reason for him to keep her there. He must realize it. Time passed and still he remained silent. Much of his anger had dissipated, and she could read nothing in his expression except a profound weariness.
Finally she could bear the silence no longer. “I wish to return to the city of New York and book passage to England. It is imperative that I return to my family in all good haste.”
“New York?” He gazed at her with an odd expression. “Travel is not possible at this time.”
“Why is it not?” Dread built in her chest.
“For several reasons, not the least of which is a nearby column of British soldiers on the march. No, Catherine, you will stay with me a while longer. At a more opportune time, I will arrange for your transport to New York or wherever you wish. So prepare yourself. We leave for Quebec in an hour.”
“You cannot ...” She began to protest, then left off. She knew he would not reconsider. If she had learned anything about him, it was that once he made up his mind, he could not be persuaded to change it. He had already reached the doorway. Just before he exited, he turned back to her.
“Gray Wolf will be disappointed when he finds out his guard duty is soon to end.”
Then he stepped outside, leaving her still a prisoner.
Chapter 19
Quebec, New France
July, 1759
Catherine’s first glimpse of Quebec came after days of traveling in a birch bark canoe on a network of rivers and lakes with Rive and Louis. Therefore, it came as no surprise she must suffer the last portion of her journey cramped, along with a trio of wooden casks, in a small wagon drawn by dogs.
“Don’t look so grim. It’s not the most elegant mode of travel, but it has certain advantages over walking. I’d have thought you would appreciate the trouble I went through to commandeer your transport.” Rive kicked a large stone out of their path. She watched it hurtle down the steep slope that dropped away from the road.
He referred to the miles they had trekked from one waterway to the next. He and Louis carried the canoe—they called it “portaging”—while she hiked alongside. Now, in no mood for conversation, she remained silent, her eyes on the steep, treacherous road pocked with holes. Even had she wished to respond, the bouncing and jostling that threw her continuously against the sides of the cart made speech all but impossible. When they reached their destination, she was sure to appear not only disheveled but bruised.
Earlier, she had questioned Rive as to where he intended to lodge her. He announced she would reside with his aunt and uncle until transport to New York could be arranged. He had ignored her protests.
“Besides, it cost me twenty livres to convince the boy to leave the last few water barrels behind.” He didn’t seem at all put off by her silence. “In dry weather, the springs and wells in the upper town produce barely more than a trickle. This is still the only way to haul water to the heights. So do not sneer at your transport, ma chère, for you may well be depriving some merchant of his bath tonight.”
Catherine refused to acknowledge that he was part of her shabby retinue. Instead, she gazed back to the river below. The memory of crossing was still vivid. Having learned something about canoes and their lack of stability, she had clung to the sides of theirs, frozen in fear, as they navigated the treacherous currents. Despite Rive and Louis’ expertise, every untoward movement convinced her they were about to capsize and drown. When they finally reached what Rive referred to as the lower town, he had to lift her bodily from the craft, for she could barely stand upright.
After seating her on a low stone wall, he had dashed into a nearby tavern fronting the unpaved street and returned with a snifter of brandy. Sitting beside her, he held the glass to her lips. Somehow, she forced a few drops down her throat, mindful of the spectacle she must have created. A woman caught imbibing spirits on a public street in London might well be hauled before a magistrate. Here, no one seemed to give them a second glance.
Of course, the townsfolk were probably occupied with other more serious matters; evidence of the war was everywhere. In the harbor, ships lay damaged or partially sunk in their berths. Fires had blackened and gutted many of the commercial buildings near the wharf—a certain sign the town was under siege. Not so the people, apparently, for the streets were crowded with gentlemen in elegant surcoats, ladies in fashionable gowns, and priests in black robes. Most curious of all were the men dressed in rough homespun shirts and moccasins and wearing woolen hats Rive called toques, which covered most of their pigtailed hair. There were military officers as well, dressed in oyster white uniforms faced with blue. The uniform she had once imagined Rive wearing.
Through Louis she had learned about the two towns—one on the narrow strand between the river and the cliff, the other on the promontory several hundred feet above.
“To live on the heights is a luxury only the Seigneurs can hope to attain. They are families of considerable wealth, most having acquired their fortunes in the fur trade. Their style of living is as grand as that of their counterparts in France, in spite of the wilderness that lies just beyond their doorstep. So, Madame, you will be housed in comfort with Rive’s family.” The reminder that she would soon arrive at the home of strangers, and with Rive, served only to heighten her anxiety.
The wagon stopped abruptly, jolting Catherine into the curved ribs of a barrel. They were at the crest of the cliff where the outskirts of the upper town began.
“It was once very beautiful,” Rive said after they were underway again. Louis had remained in the lower town where he would lodge with family. As she and Rive entered the city, she could not totally tamp down her curiosity. She turned her atte
ntion to him. “Over there is the Chateau St. Louis, where the Governor General resides.” He pointed to an enormous building constructed of stone. “The walls are over two feet deep, but you can see the cannonballs have taken a toll. Still, it appears habitable, at least for now.”
As they proceeded, he gave a running account of the buildings: the Jesuit college, its steeple fronted by a clock whose hands were frozen in the past; the convent of the Ursaline nuns; the Hotel Dieu, another large and rather imposing stone structure that served as a hospital; and, finally, the Bishop’s palace, which, in Catherine’s opinion was grand but certainly nothing to rival Windsor. However, with their suggestion of wealth, the homes impressed her most. Composed of stout timber and stone, they looked out onto well-tended gardens and lawns dotted with shade trees.
They passed a public square where people strolled in the late afternoon sun or sat beneath leafy maple trees. Even in wartime the inhabitants, including finely arrayed ladies, seemed to go about their daily routines.
Catherine gathered the folds of her soiled gown in her fingers. Before they left on their journey, an Indian woman had returned it along with her shift. Although wrinkled, the garments were clean. Perhaps the woman had washed them in the river and spread them out to dry. Unfortunately, additional stitches in the hem had torn loose in several places. She concealed herself as best she could by shrinking into the cramped corner of the wagon.
Concerned about events that had brought her north, she nonetheless clung to one tiny spark of hope; it could be weeks before anyone missed Jeremy Flint. Since he had never spoken of family, she felt certain he had none nearby in New York. However, his absence would eventually be noticed and, she suspected, an investigation conducted. Twice he had reminded her that in the event of his premature demise, his agent in London was to be notified immediately to cease payment to her father. That notification would take months. So time, once her enemy, might now prove her ally.
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