“And the originals, Monsieur le Provincial? It was indeed kind of you to have the translations made for me, but—”
“The Jesuit who made them is an Englishman born and bred, Monsieur. And he has spoken French for the past twenty years. There can be no doubt of either his loyalty to our Holy Faith, and thus our king and our cause, or his understanding of both French and English. Is there a better translator in all Québec? Do you have someone here at your château who is more fluent in both languages?”
A pox on you, black robe. May your heart be cut out at the first possible opportunity. “Bien sûr, Monsieur le Provincial. Bien sûr. Still, the originals … I should send them to France. His Majesty will—”
“Of course. I entirely agree. As soon as this fracas is over and we know the high seas are safe, the originals must go to Versailles. Until then, I assure you, Monsieur le Gouverneur-Général, they are perfectly protected. I will take full responsibility.”
“The responsibility for getting information to Versailles is mine, Monsieur le Provincial.”
At once Roget bent his head in submission. “Exactly as you say, Monsieur le Gouverneur-Général. I will have the originals delivered to you immediately.”
“Excellent. I am in your debt, Monsieur le Provincial. All New France is in your debt.”
“I only do my duty, Monsieur le Gouverneur-Général,”
Vaudreuil rang impatiently for someone to show the Jesuit out. Quickly, before he gave in to his rage and cut out the man’s tongue.
A strong inland wind greeted Louis Roget as he set out across the Place d’Armes, the wide plaza in front of the château. It had been calm earlier, a still and sunny afternoon, but during the hour he’d been with that old Canadian ruffian whom providence had seen fit to make a marquis a chinook had developed. He’d learned about chinooks since he’d been in this devil-spawned Québec. They blew almost gale force, but brought no relief from summer’s heat. This wind was hot and dry, filled with grit and dust picked up as it descended the mountains and skimmed the prairies. The Jesuit had to hang on to his biretta and struggle to keep his sweaty soutane from tripping him up as he toiled up the hills to the Collège. No matter. If he could he would dance his way home.
General Braddock’s papers would remain where they were, hidden behind the magnificent wall created by the Champenois ébénistes. Vaudreuil would ask about them a few times, but the governor-general would not go so far as to send armed men to wrest them from the clutch of the black robes. And failing that, he would not get them. Meanwhile he would act on the information supplied by Louis Roget because he dared not do otherwise, and it would serve him well. Vaudreuil would come to know what those before him had also had to recognize: there could be no governing New France without the cooperation of the Society of Jesus. Grâce àDieu! Louis Roget had met the enemy and he had won.
From his window in the Château Saint-Louis Vaudreuil watched until the priest was out of sight. The Jesuit was a picture of holy modesty. Bastard. May you be staked out and left to die of thirst. May vultures pick at your flesh. Do you think I don’t know that you despise me for not being French as you are French? For being Canadian? May you die a Canadian death, Monsieur le Provincial.
The governor-general turned from the window and grabbed the bell on his desk. The black slave he had acquired while he was governor of that hellhole called Louisiana appeared before it stopped ringing. “Oui, Monsieur le Gouverneur-Général.”
“Bring me a glass of Burgundy. And talk to the apothecary. Have him add something that will soothe my stomach. Also, tell them to send the cook back to whatever wolf-pit he comes from. I cannot discharge my responsibilities if my digestion is challenged at every meal.” It was his wife’s fault. If she had not gone to Montréal to buy things she said she could not get in Québec, he would not be at the mercy of a kitchen lacking supervision and scheming to ruin him.
The slave scurried off. Vaudreuil knew it wasn’t his dinner turning his bowels to water, nonetheless he felt better for doing something. Getting rid of the cook was not, however, enough. He reached for paper and a quill. He could not trust a secretary with such information as this. In fact, he could trust no one in the government of Québec. Every second person seemed to be under the thumb of the black robes. Those who were not, conspired with Intendant Bigot to make themselves rich by robbing the public purse. Eh bien. He had promised himself when he accepted this appointment that he would not waste his strength fighting batdes that could not be won.
There is nothing to be done about la grande société and its larceny; Bigot’s tentacles stretch too far. As for the Provincial Superior and his Society of Jesus … Not yet Louis Roget is a thousand times more clever than Bigot. Is he clever enough to have forged a document and passed it off as the English battle plans? Yes. But why? Whatever else you may be, Monsieur le Provincial, I believe you are truly a Catholic. You vie for power with me, and with this mad Franciscan whom I confess I do not understand, but I do not think you would do anything to assist the heretic English. If this information is then accurate, it must truly come from Braddock himself.
Vaudreuil was almost overcome by the hopelessness of it all. Battles you can win, he reminded himself. You are an old man and you took this assignment, undoubtedly your last, for only one reason. It is up to you to see that Canada is not lost to the English by the stupidity and pigheadedness and lack of understanding in Versailles. For the moment the man who can best keep Canada safe is headed up the St. Lawrence with four thousand French regulars, Canadians, and Indians to reinforce Fort Niagara. Where, If the Jesuit is to be believed, we are not yet to be attacked.
Alors. I have more reasons to believe Louis Roget than to disbelieve him. So you must go south, mon ami le maréchal de camp. To Lake Champlain, or even farther, to Lake St. Sacrement. Vaudreuil paused for a moment, trying to remember the old Indian name for that lake, the one he’d learned as a boy. Ah yes, Bright Fish Water. A long way away perhaps, but that is where they must confront this General Johnson and his Mohawks.
Vaudreuil hesitated a moment longer, ordering his thoughts, then dipped his quill in the fine jade inkpot that his predecessor had somehow left behind and began: My dear Dieskau, I have it on no less than the authority of the Provincial Superior of the black robes that …
TUESDAY, AUGUST 31, 1755
THE SIGN OF THE NAG’S HEAD, ALBANY
“Lake George,” Annie said. “That’s what they’s gonna call it. No more Bright Fish Water.”
“They canna do that,” Hamish protested. “It’s been Bright Fish Water right along. The Sassenachs canna come along and name it for their bloody heretic king just ’cause they’ve a mind to do so.”
“Lower yer voice, you Scots fool. Show some respect. It’s the king’s standard is right up there behind ye, remember. All around, if it comes to that.” Annie jerked her head in the direction of the fort and the hills surrounding the town, and squirmed on the taproom bench so they were sitting a bit closer.
He could smell the sourness of her, and the sex. She’d just come in from the yard where she did her business. “It’s him as told you about the name?” Hamish said. “That wee nubbin fancies himself a soldier that just left?” Yorkers, they were called, these fresh-faced young men in their blue coats with the bright red facings. Lads that could na wait to be slaughtered in the glory o’ war. Christ ha’ pity on ’em all. But may the Blessed Virgin bring victory to the French and the Holy Faith.
“Indeed. I’ve no idea what kind of a soldier he may turn out to be, but it’s a fine strong boy he is in other ways.” Annie laughed raucously and banged a coin on the table signaling for the punch bowl. “C’mon, you Jacobite papist, drink up and I’ll buy you a refill.”
Hamish gave her a black look, but he downed the last of his rum and let her ladle him a glass of punch when the bowl came. “Thin stuff,” he complained after the first sip. “Canna serve to keep the cold from a man’s bones.”
“It’s summer, you daft
bugger. It’s cooling you want, not heating.”
He was not interested in discussing the weather. “You’re sure,” he said, “Lake George?”
“’Course I’m sure. Way I heard, it’s Johnson himself what said it. From this day forward,” Annie rolled the words in a fair imitation of a man making a solemn proclamation, “this shall be Lake George.”
A few of the blue-coated Yorkers standing nearby heard her and turned. One even lifted his mug of ale in salute. Hamish had all he could do to keep from walking over and punching the man in the face. He leaned toward Annie and spoke in a gruff whisper. “I don’t care who this William Johnson fancies himself to be, with his blue-coated laddies pretending they’re soldiers and God knows how many Mohawk savages ready to do his bidding. It’s Bright Fish Water. As it’s always been.”
The force William Johnson was gathering to take Fort St. Frédéric at Crown Point had been assembling in and around Albany for weeks. But all Johnson had done was to send an advance party north as far as the Great Carrying Place and build Fort Edward. Edward, after yet another bloody Sassenach, the heretic duke o’ York, Hamish thought. And God help him, he was o’ two minds as to whether it was in his best interests to bide and let things develop as they might—which was the advice o’ John Lydius—or run to Québec and warn that blackhearted Père Antoine o’ what was to be. For the sake o’ Holy Church, o’ course. Though it might help his alliance with the Franciscan as well.
The conflict was eating into his gut. The thought of anything changing at Shadowbrook before it was his made it worse. Acid bile rose in his gorge. “What does John Hale say about it, then? It’s you as should know better ’n anyone what’s in the mind o’ that piss-poor excuse for a man. What’s he say?”
“Ain’t seen him in a fortnight. But I can tell ye this. Don’t matter none what John Hale says. He made over Bright Fish Water and the bit they call the Great Carrying Place, and a good deal more besides.”
“In Christ’s name, what are you talking about, woman? Made over to who? When?”
“Nearly a year past, in New York City. Leastwise that’s what I was told.” Annie sat back and watched the effect of her words. Jesus, but these men were something. Thought they were God Almighty soon as they had a stiff cock Didn’t realize it only made ’em easier to lead around. “Made it over to a Jew,” she said.
“I don’t believe you.” Hamish downed the last of the punch and called for rum.
“Believe as ye like. It’s the truth nonetheless.”
“It’s not.”
The barmaid brought Hamish a large mug of rum. He gave her two coppers and an aimless pat on the behind.
“S’truth,” Annie repeated. Aw, why was she doing this now? She’d known as soon as she heard the story that it was important, something she could use to make things a little better for herself. She knew she should keep quiet until she saw a way to do that. Instead here she was spilling the tale to this Scot. For no good reason except she wanted him to know she was something more than a stupid whore meant for fucking and abusing.
Almost two years the Scot had been paying her to talk about John Hale, that vicious rat. The month before he’d worn her down and made her tell how she had to let Hale piss on her ’fore he fucked her. She’d been feeling sorry for herself and needing someone as would listen to her woes. So she’d told him the whole thing and bloody Hamish Stewart laughed. Oh, he’d said sorry fast enough, but she knew he wasn’t. Not really. He only said it so she’d go on talking. All right then, she’d tell him how his precious Shadowbrook—and did he think she was such a fool she didn’t know that was what he wanted, though she couldn’t see as how he’d ever get it—wasn’t quite the prize as it had been before. “One of them sutlers as is all over the place selling things to the Yorkers, he told me. Worked for the governor’s brother down in New York City he did. Oliver someone.”
“Oliver De Lancey.”
“Yes, that’s right. Anyway this sutler, he was a footman for this De Lancey fella …”
“What about John Hale?” Hamish took a golden guinea from his purse and pushed it across the table. “C’mon, Annie lass, I always take care o’ you when you do right by me. What did he say about John Hale?”
Annie swallowed hard. She wanted to snatch up the shiny coin before the Scot changed his mind. But what she knew was worth more. Her gut told her it was. And she’d never have a better opportunity. “A guinea ain’t enough,” she muttered. “Not for this story, it ain’t.”
“How’s this then.” Hamish put another golden lady on top of the first. Two guineas. Annie’s mouth was dry and her palms were sweating, but she clenched her fists in her lap and shook her head. Hamish hesitated, then made up his mind. All his past investments in Annie had proved themselves worthwhile. “Very well,” he said softly. “Five golden ladies. But only if I decide the information’s worth that much. C’mon, lass, five guineas. ’Tis a fortune.”
A fortune for the likes of her, that’s what he meant. Thing is, it was. If she got five golden ladies she wouldn’t have to come back to the Nag’s Head for two months. Maybe longer. “Five guineas,” she agreed. “But you puts ’em all on the table right now, Hamish Stewart. No promises, mind. Cash money.”
Hamish turned to the wall and opened his purse and counted out three more coins, then turned back and added them to the stack. Annie covered the money with her hand, but he slapped his big maw over hers so she couldn’t actually take it. “Not so fast, lassie.” He leaned forward and fixed her with his single eye. “The truth. Otherwise I’ll na be responsible for what I might do.”
“It’s all true. Just like the sutler told me.” She craned her neck in all directions before she continued. No one was paying them any mind—they were both regulars at old man Groesbeck’s after all—nonetheless she whispered. “John Hale was at a meeting in Oliver De Lancey’s house, with another man whose name I don’t know, and a Jew. Somebody Levy I think it was.”
She’d been right about how important this story was. Annie knew it when she saw Hamish’s cheeks turn a blotchy purple, and saw him draw his eyebrows close over his nose. Ah God, and aren’t ye feeling a bit poorly now, my fine Scots cock-of-the-walk Think Annie’s for fucking and forgetting, do ye? We’ll see.
“Hayman Levy,” Hamish said.
“Yes. That’s the name the sutler said.” She chose her words carefully, watching their effect, feeling the thrill of power. “John Hale made over a whole piece of Shadowbrook to Hayman Levy. Back when he was a footman the sutler was right outside the door of the room where it happened. He heard everything. Even looked through the keyhole and saw John Hale sign the paper.”
The blood was pounding in his ears, but Hamish’s voice was steady. He let go of Annie’s hand and wrapped both his around the mug of rum to disguise their trembling. Annie cautiously begin to slide the money toward the table’s edge. Wanted to grab ’em up, Hamish knew, but she dinna quite dare. Damn Annie Crotchett to hellfire for holding him up for five golden ladies, but what she was telling him was worth the price. “Made the land over in return for what? Why would John Hale do such a thing?”
God’s truth, not to pay for three slaves. The man couldna be such a fool as he’d sell a piece o’ his birthright for the pride o’ going to an auction and letting the men o’ New York City see him buy three slaves he dinna really need. But Holy Jesus Christ Our Savior, the three o’ em was there that poxed day watching Hale pay cash money for slaves not four months after he’d been nearly burned out. Levy and De Lancey and the lawyer James Alexander. If there was land to be made over, a lawyer would be needed. “What did Hale get for the land?” Hamish asked. He made a gesture as if to take back the stack of golden ladies. Annie whisked them away and made them disappear down the front of her dress.
“I’m not sure,” she admitted.
“Christ Jesus.” Hamish spoke the words with as much venom as he could muster, but inside he was singing. If she dinna know what had made John Hale agree to such a
devil’s own bargain, than more than likely she was lying. “You’ll not get to keep five ladies for such rubbish as that, Annie Crotchett.”
“It’s true. Every word of it.” Her chest was heaving so she thought her paps might come out of her dress. Maybe this would be enough. Maybe she didn’t have to tell Hamish the rest of the tale. At least not yet. Maybe once these golden ladies were gone she could come back and get more for the part of the story she still hadn’t told. But why had he stopped watching her? Hamish had half turned and was staring down the room with his single eye. “Hey! What you looking at now?”
“Close your gob, lass. And keep it closed for a bit.”
Annie half stood so she could see what he saw. “Jesus Christ,” she breathed, settling heavily back down on the bench. “So he’s come home, has he? They said he’d gone back to the Ohio Country for good this time.”
Hamish scowled. The presence of Quentin Hale might complicate things, but the matter at hand was more urgent. “Keeps turning up like a bad penny, that one. But we canna allow him to interrupt our business, Annie lass. You were about to tell me what John Hale got for making a piece o’ Shadowbrook over to Hayman Levy and his friends.”
“No, I was not. I already told you, I got no idea ‘bout that.”
“Then I’ll have my golden ladies back. Give ‘em over or I’ll shake ‘em free.”
“I earned them ladies fair and square, Hamish Stewart. I didn’t—”
“You dinna tell me a story as makes any sense. And that means it’s a bloody lie and I’ll have my money back. Are you giving it to me or do I have to take it?” Hamish gripped her arm and stood up, dragging her up with him.
“Sit down!” Annie didn’t realize she’d yelled until she saw a couple of heads turn. “Sit yourself down, Hamish Stewart.” This time she whispered the words. “I never said I was finished, did I? There’s a bit more to tell.” She dare not hold back the rest.
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