Sweet Christ, not more than he could handle, he hoped. Louisbourg was the object of the exercise, the first stone that must fall if Canada was to be taken. A hundred nights running he’d studied the situation—more, if he counted the time in London doing the planning. Built on a tongue of land between Cape Breton and the open Atlantic, Louisbourg faced a sea that boiled like a cauldron where it met an iron coast, continually white with foam and shooting jets of spray that disappeared into a mist that never entirely went away. And if the natural conditions weren’t miserable enough, there was the wall. More than five leagues of wall. Surrounding a town that housed four thousand people and was garrisoned with three battalions of French regulars, one of the poxed Volontaires Etrangers—the formidable Canadian troops—two companies of artillery, and a varying number of woodsmen.
“In all, some three thousand troops,” Admiral Holburne said. “Besides officers, of course.” Holburne and Loudoun sat across from each other at the dining table in the governor’s mansion, which Loudoun had commandeered on his arrival.
“Of course.” Loudoun’s stomach growled. Sweet Christ, he hadn’t waited this long only to be told what he already knew: the size of the garrison had not changed. Another, louder protest from his belly. Had to be the beef at lunch. Tough as hide. And the delay, of course. More than a month lost to foul weather would turn any man’s stomach. But however long the news had taken to get here, it wasn’t bad. No major reinforcements at Louisbourg meant his force outnumbered the enemy two to one. “And in the harbor?” he asked.
Admiral Holburne did not look at him. The better part of a second bottle of Rhenish wine was gone. At the moment the naval man’s glass was empty. They were ashore in the governor’s mansion. Loudon had commandeered it upon his arrival, and in these circumstances Loudoun outranked Holburne and was host; he leaned forward and poured a refill for the admiral. “Come on, man. Might as well tell me. What’s waiting for us in the harbor?”
“Eighteen French ships of the line, fully armed. And five frigates.”
Loudoun set down the wine and stared at his guest. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He’d been told to expect three ships, maybe four, no frigates. Eighteen fully armed ships of the line. Jesus bloody Christ.
Holburne mopped his face with a linen pocket cloth. The man perspired in visible showers. Repulsive and fascinating at the same time. “We tried to prevent them getting through,” he said. “We could not. Most arrived in the past fortnight. The weather …”
Loudoun got to his feet and walked to the window. Nearly the entire French fleet had come to bulwark Louisbourg while he’d sat waiting for the British navy to pull their thumbs from their own arses. There was bright sun now. And the sky as blue as a tart’s best cloak, not a cloud to be seen. He’d been here well before the reinforcements and it availed him nothing. The weather had defeated—Perhaps not. Perhaps he was being an old woman. He spun around. “Holburne, as one military man to another, tell me what you think about the situation.”
Before today Holburne had known Loudoun only by reputation. A Scot by birth, but a Campbell, a clan that frequently sided with the crown. And look what it got them. Those the other Highlanders didn’t slaughter became earls and commanded his majesty’s forces in America. “It’s entirely your decision, milord The fleet will support you in whatever plan you follow.”
Loudoun returned to the table and leaned on it with both arms, forcing the other man to look straight at him. “Don’t mouth porridge at me, Admiral. I asked what you think. For the love of God, man, there’s no one here but the pair of us. Express yourself.”
The Scot’s face was as white as the ruffled stock below his chin. For his part Holburne knew he was the color of raw beef. Damned wine always made him hot as a whore’s tit.
“I see you’re not going to answer me, Admiral.” Loudoun straightened and reached for the bottle. Only one glass remained and he poured it for himself. “I can’t compel you. I just thought it might help to hear your—”
“There’s no hope of succeeding, milord. Not at any attempt on Louisbourg at this late season of the year.” The words were out of his mouth before he knew he was going to speak them. Cowardice, failing to do one’s utmost against the enemy, was a capital offense. It meant a firing squad. Holburne poured sweat.
Loudoun didn’t speak for long seconds; when he did, his voice was low and even. “Very well. Let me ask another question. What about Québec?”
“What about it, milord?”
“Could we take it? Bypass Louisbourg, where they expect the battle, and go straight to the heart of the matter. One devastating blow that will bring New France to its knees.” He had been toying with the idea for the last couple of days. Probably the wine talking, and his frustration at the long delay. “What about it, man? Could we take Québec?”
The admiral mopped his face. He could feel beads of sweat dripping from his nose and his chin. “Not without taking Louisbourg first, milord. And even then …”
“Yes.”
“My honest opinion, sir, as a man of the sea, is that we can never take Québec with warships. We can’t get through La Traverse, the channel that lies off—”
“I know where the bloody passage lies, Admiral.” There was a real edge to his voice now. Does the thought of any battle turn your britches brown Holburne? “But if we are never to take Québec, how are we to win this war?”
“By containing them up there, milord. By making the French withdraw to their fortress city and leave everything else to us. To do that we must take Louisbourg.”
Sensible advice and what Loudoun’s better judgment also told him. Québec was forever out of reach. Louisbourg was indispensable to victory. But nothing could change the fact that the entire campaign season had been lost to him. He pulled a square of linen from his sleeve. “Here man, use this. Your own is sodden. And thank you for your honest advice. I value it.”
“Milord, I don’t mean that I won’t—”
“Do your duty. I know that. What’s at issue here is my duty, Admiral, not yours. Thanks to your intelligence I learn that I must attempt to bring ashore on one of the most dangerous coasts on this continent nearly His Majesty’s entire regular army in America. And I must do it facing a naval force superior to that you can provide me, under constant threat of the worst weather Almighty God has sent to plague Christendom, at a time of year when it can be counted upon to deteriorate from whatever parlous state we find it in when we arrive. It becomes rather clear put that way, doesn’t it, Admiral?”
Holburne nodded.
Loudoun drank the last of the Rhenish and went to the door. Two heavily armed marines waited in the hall. “You there, find Captain James and tell him I want him. Immediately.”
When the door was again closed, Holburne asked: “May I know your decision, mord?”
“You may. I shall tell James to prepare the fleet to sail.”
“For Louisbourg?”
“No, of course not for Louisbourg. You are entirely correct, sir; it is far too late to undertake a campaign against Louisbourg. We shall return to the godforsaken province of New York in the stubborn and ungrateful and barbaric American colonies. God alone knows what we’ll find when we get there, but it can’t be any worse that what we’re leaving behind.”
LEAF FALLING MOON, THE NINTH SUN THE VILLAGE OF SINGING SNOW
“We have waited long to see you, my bridge person son.”
“I have been far away, Father. It took time to return to the home of my heart.”
Bishkek made a sound of disgust. “Many times I am told you were seen in Québec. It is not such a great distance between that city and this fire.”
Cormac had expected the reproach. He could not tell his manhood father that he had been as far south as Carolina looking for a white woman. “I found the hawk, Father. The one in my dream. At least I think it was that one.”
“It is not likely that you will have been sent to look for two hawks. So?”
Co
rm shook his head. “He told me many things, but I still do not know who the white bear is. Kwashko says it is him, but—”
“My other whiteface son is a red bear, is he not? Has his hair turned white since I saw him?”
“No, Father. He is still Uko Nyakwai. That is why … But even if he is correct, I do not know if the threat to the little birds is finished.”
“Red Bear,” Bishkek muttered. “Disgusting name.” They squatted near a cooking pot suspended over a fire tended by one of Bishkek’s many daughters. “Wisnawen,” the old man demanded, “yawukne?” The squaw shook her head. The food was not yet ready. Bishkek stood. “Come, we must go to see someone.”
“Who?”
“The squaw priest.”
“The one who nearly stabbed me?”
“Nearly is not important. The flint did not go into your heart, did it?”
“No but—”
There was no wind, but an unseasonably biting cold. Bishkek pulled the blanket he wore closer around his shoulders. “Come. Otherwise by the time we return the food will be cold.”
They began walking. Bishkek looked up at the sky. It was gray and heavy. “Pkon,” he muttered. “Nagic.” Snow soon. “My bridge person son must not be here when the snow comes.”
“Leaf Falling is too early for snow.”
“Perhaps the clouds do not know which moon it is. Perhaps they do not care. Tomorrow or the next day it will snow. You must leave before the first flakes come.”
“You always say that. But I am not a squaw or a child. It does not matter if it snows. If I want to leave, I can still—”
“Be quiet. Do you think you are the only one who has dreams?”
They had walked as far as the dome-shaped wickiup the village had erected for Shabnokis the Midè squaw priest. Having her near Singing Snow was a good thing; not having her actually living among them was even better. Everyone knew that the priests of the Midewiwin often caused trouble.
There was no sign of Shabnokis, but they could hear her chanting. “Wa hi, hi, hi. Haya, haya.”
“She is praying,” Corm said. “Better we go away and come back tomorrow.” He wasn’t sure why the thought of another session with Shabnokis was so unpleasant, only that it was.
“I already told you, you must leave tomorrow.”
“Yes, before the snow.” Corm’s tone made it obvious how unlikely he thought that to be. “But the priest is busy. She won’t like it if we—”
“She chants because she knows we’re here. So we’ll be impressed with how holy she is. Praying all the time even when no one is around.” Bishkek cupped his hands around his mouth. “Ho! Jebye. Kteshyamin.” We have come.
The chant stopped and the blanket that covered the door of the wickiup was pushed aside. Shabnokis looked older than Corm remembered her. Her hair was entirely white and she wore it in two plaits that hung over her shoulders. “Why do you make so much noise? I knew you were coming and I know you are here. I was praying for that one, the scar-face.” She jerked her head in Corm’s direction, but spoke of him as if he were not present. “He needs prayers.”
Bishkek’s look darkened. “Then make many prayers. As many as he needs.” Ayi! Just like the Midewiwin. Always reminding you how important they were. And impossible to know when they spoke the truth and when they were only boasting. Still, better to be sure. “Many prayers,” he repeated. “I will send an elkskin tomorrow. It will snow soon. You will need it.”
Shabnokis cocked her head at the gray sky. “Leaf Falling is too early for snow.”
So, she did not know as much as he did. Nonetheless. “I did not come here to talk about the weather. Tell my son what you told me.”
Shabnokis shrugged. “I have told you and the others many things. Besides, I am old and I forget much.”
“Two elkskins,” Bishkek promised.
“Father, I don’t—”
“Be quiet. I brought you here to listen, not to talk.”
Shabnokis came toward them. “Good skins,” she said. “Not shabby with half the fur gone.”
“The best,” Bishkek assured her.
The squaw priest squatted on the ground and motioned the two men to join her. Corm tried to keep his distance, but Bishkek pushed him closer. The woman wore a buckskin shirt much like that of a coureur de bois. The laces that closed the neck were not done up and he could see the wrinkled skin of the flat place above her drooping breasts. No whole-skin otter bag. Maybe she left it in the wickiup because she knew this wasn’t a ceremonial visit. Meaning Bishkek must have arranged everything ahead of time. Which was a little odd since Corm had arrived in Singing Snow without warning and not more than an hour earlier.
“A priest of my lodge, a Miami, died in Thunder Moon. Before the Telling,” Shabnokis said. Corm realized he had lately been too long and too steadily among the Cmokmanuk He automatically translated that to two months ago, early July. “I was among those who attended his ending.”
The squaw priest closed her eyes and began humming softly to herself. “Wa, hi, hi, hi. It was a bad ending,” she whispered. “He died slowly, with his belly on fire. Before the spirit left him he kept repeating the same thing. Papankamwa, esipana, ayaapia, anseepikwa, eeyeelia, pileewa.”
“Those are Miami words,” Bishkek supplied.
“I know.” Corm looked from his manhood father to the squaw priest. She had just repeated the Miami names for racoon, elk buck, spider, fox, possum, and turkey, the symbols carved on the Suckáuhock It was not possible that Bishkek could have told her those things. For one thing he would never betray Cormac. Never. For another, he didn’t have the information. Bishkek had always refused to look at the Súki beads. Corm’s heart began hammering in his chest. “This priest who died, was he named Takito?” Genevieve Lydius’s priest, who’d put Cormac to sleep for three days and nearly got him killed.
“No, I told you before. The one called Takito is not from my lodge. I would never be at his ending. This one was—” Shabnokis broke off. “He is not yet dead six moons. I cannot speak his name. It is anyway not important. Eehsipana, ayaapia—”
“You already told me the six animal names. What else did he say?”
Bishkek made a sound of disapproval. “Cmokman,” he muttered softly under his breath, hoping Cormac would be reminded that he was acting white, not showing proper respect. Then, louder so the squaw priest would be sure to hear, “Two elkskins, remember. The very best.”
Shabnokis shrugged. She would allow the scar-face’s impertinence to pass, at least this time. “The fire in the dying priest’s belly,” she said, “it came from two things. One was the evil spirit who was slowly taking away his life. It was so big a spirit that his belly stuck out this much.” She used her hands to indicate a great swelling. “The other was from the shame of making a bargain with a Cmokman dog turd priest and not keeping his word.”
Ayi! Finally some information he could use, though Corm was pretty sure he could guess the rest of the story. “What bargain?”
The squaw priest grunted to show her disapproval of yet another interruption, then continued. “A long time ago the priest of my lodge went to Québec. He met with a dog turd priest and told him that the Miami chief Memetosia was in Albany at a powwow with the other tribe, the English Cmokmanuk”
That meant the Midè and Christian priests had met in 1754, the same year Memetosia gave him the Suckáuhock. Corm’s chest roiled and his heart thudded against his ribs. “You said they made an agreement. What—”
Shabnokis turned to Bishkek. “Did you never teach this one any manners?”
“Comamden ezhawepsiyan.” He can’t help being as he is. “Three elkskins.” Then, so she wouldn’t think he made too easy a bargain: “Small ones.”
“Big,” she corrected.
“If big, only two.”
For a moment it seemed she would continue to haggle, then Shabnokis waved her hand to dismiss the discussion. “Two big,” she agreed. “When he was in Québec the Midè priest promise
d the dog turd he would get him something rare, something that would make many Anishinabeg do his will. He said so when he was dying. We all heard it. Next he told how he had tried to keep his word, but he couldn’t do it. The brave he sent to get the thing he had promised never returned. Even though the priest of my lodge had told the brave that a terrible curse would be on him and his family if he did not.”
“He couldn’t return,” Corm said quietly. “I took his scalp and left his body in the river to feed the fish.”
Shabnokis nodded. “So the spirits told me. That is why I repeated this thing to your manhood father.”
“Two more questions,” Corm said. Bishkek sighed, but Shabnokis did not demand any more elkskins. “This Midè priest,” Corm asked, “the one who died, what did the Cmokman priest give him in return? Why would he agree to betray the Anishinabeg in this way?”
“For money. To buy firewater.” She turned her head and spat on the ground. “He could not live without firewater. And that is what made an evil spirit come into his belly and grow it out to here.” This time her hands made the swelling even bigger.
“Ahaw.” Corm had no difficulty believing that a man could need alcohol more than he needed life or honor. He had seen such things before, and not just among Indians. “Do you know the name of the priest?”
“I told you, he is not dead six moons. I cannot—”
“Not him. The Cmokman.” It had to be the one they called Père Antoine. Philippe Faucon had told him that the Franciscan was some kind of spy for the English.
Shabnokis shook her head. “I never heard his name. I know only that he was a black robe and—”
“No, a brown robe! It must be a brown robe!”
“Do you think I have so many elkskins that you can be as rude as you wish?” Bishkek exploded.
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