The priest started to speak. Montcalm raised his hand. “Hear me out. I promised you a piece of information. It will do you no good with anyone in Québec. You are already believed to be a fanatic, as you know. Vaudreuil doesn’t trust you, and neither, I think, does the bishop. Roget hates you, and Bigot is barely aware of your existence. Still, for your own peace of mind, and because I am grateful for the effort you made—even if I chose not to act on it in the manner you hoped—the defenses of Québec are without a break There is no place for Wolfe to attack us. He can shell, and he will. But unless we give him a battle, he cannot have one. I do not intend to give him a battle, mon Père. When the winter comes the Admiral Saunders and the General Wolfe will go away, because if they do not they will be frozen in place in the river and we will pick them off at our leisure. With, I am sure, the assistance of those local Indians in whom our esteemed governor-general has such faith. Meanwhile the supplies of the English will be long gone, and those we do not kill will starve to death.”
“But all of this could have been avoided if—”
Montcalm held up his hand. “I am not finished. I am told, mon Père, that your concern is for the Ohio Country. Millions of heathens, you said, just waiting to be saved. I am not sure they can ever be civilized, much less made into Christians, but on the matter of the importance of the land south of us, we are in agreement. The Ohio Country and Louisiana are the future of New France on this continent. If we were to lose this realm of ice it would be unfortunate, perhaps, but not the defeat of the empire.”
The marquis reached for the door of the carriage. It seemed almost too much effort. He was weary. He had made exactly this argument in documents sent to Versailles during the winter. He had begged His Majesty for permission to withdraw from Canada and defend the Ohio forts and Louisiana, and he had been refused. The folly of that decision was already apparent, at least to him.
Amherst prepares to take Fort Carillon. If it falls—eh bien, when it falls—the English will also take Fort Niagara and then Fort St. Frédéric. The entire corridor will be theirs, and I can do nothing because the chinless general has pinned me and my army here in Québec, and I must defend this place whether or not it is worth defending. If I could have avoided this by using the map you undoubtedly stole, my fanatic Franciscan, I would have done so. It was not possible, but I can see in those half-mad eyes of yours that you will probably never believe me. So I must pull your fangs with a trifle more firmness.
“Don’t bother to get out of the carriage, mon Père. We have finished our business. I will have you driven back to the town. Please give my compliments to the delightful Soeur Stephane. Ah yes, one thing more. If you are thinking that she can corroborate your fantastic story about a map … I will deny her as readily as I deny you. And since I have learned that her father was an English officer, I do not think she will command more trust than you will. Au revoir, mon Père. I commend myself to your prayers.”
And I, if you keep this, promise you life everlasting. In all Christendom a Poor Clare Abbess was the only woman who could speak those words to her nuns, but her legacy included another extraordinary privilege. A Poor Clare abbess could bless her community with the Sacred Host, just as a priest did.
Because, five hundred years before, Holy Mother Clare had taken it on herself to carry the Blessed Sacrament to the ramparts of Assisi and repel the Saracen invaders, Mère Marie Rose was permitted to open the door of the tabernacle from the nun’s side of the grille and remove the elaborate monstrance that held the large white wafer. She did so now, and turned to face her nuns. They bowed their heads. The abbess raised the monstrance above her own, then brought it down to chest height. “Au nom du Père, et du Fils, et du—” Marie Rose stopped speaking.
Soeur Celeste waited for the space of two heartbeats, then raised her head. The eyes of Dear Abbess were closed. She was motionless, holding the monstrance at her left side. She feels again the wound of love, Celeste realized. But like this, with the Holy Sacrament in her hands … Celeste was the vicaress of the community, the second in command. It was up to her to decide what to do. Normally, when it was during the Office or some other prayer, it was simple. She led the sisters out of the choir and allowed le bon Dieu to care for the nun He so favored. But now, with the Sacred Host in her hands … what if, overcome as she was, the grip of Mère Marie Rose gave way?
The mighty St. Lawrence was a red torrent, a river of blood. Hundreds tumbled in the rushing waters, all screaming in agony and weeping with despair. And hovering above, holding the river back so it could not engulf Québec and sweep thousands of more souls into a plunge to everlasting hellfire, there were five nuns. “There should be six, Lord. Why only five?” Soeur Stephane was missing. She was off to one side, by herself. Very still, and her veil was crowned with a wreath of flowers. “Truth is where it is, Marie Rose, whom I have made abbess. I have given you charge over the souls of these nuns, but only to act in My name. To honor the truth I show you, not the truth you expect.”
The moments went by. Mère Marie Rose did not move. Soeur Celeste was not an abbess; for her to touch the monstrance when it contained the Sacred Host was a grave sin. How much worse, though, was the thought that, entranced as she was, Mother Abbess might drop the Glory that she held. Celeste rose from her stall and approached the altar. “Ma Mère, please. You must come back to us. For at least as long as it takes to return the monstrance to the tabernacle. Mère Marie Rose, please …”
“Blood,” the abbess whispered. “A river full of blood and torment. Soeur Stephane …”
Startled, Celeste turned to look at the youngest nun. Soeur Stephane knelt in her stall, head bowed, apparently unaware that she had anything to do with the vision of the abbess. “She is here, ma Mère, do you wish me to—”
“I wish that you would return to your stall, Soeur Celeste. What are you thinking of?” The abbess’s eyes were wide open now, and she was staring at her second in command with astonishment. “You give a bad example, ma Soeur. It is against the Holy Rule.”
Celeste bowed her head and in acknowledgment of the reprimand touched her heart. “I humbly confess my fault, ma Mère.” She turned and went back to her stall.
Marie Rose waited until Celeste had resumed her place. “Et du Saint-Esprit,” she intoned, concluding the benediction. Then she turned, replaced the monstrance in the tabernacle, and genuflected. Give me strength, Lord, she prayed. Don’t let the sisters see me tremble as I walk back to my stall. A torrent of blood. And Soeur Stephane, so young to die … Save us, Lord, we perish.
Wolfe’s guns could not shell the town from the He d’Orléans, but he believed Québec would be in range from the heights of Pointe-Lévis on the opposite shore. Monckton, his senior brigadier and a Yorkshireman accustomed to plain speech, said that couldn’t be so. “If the guns could do them damage from this elbow,” he bent over the map the two were studying and indicated Pointe-Lévis with a blunt finger, “surely they’d have fortified it.”
“Why is it, General Monckton, that if I say black, you say white?”
“Begging your pardon, General Wolfe, I do not. I merely wish to point out that—”
“That we should accept French wisdom. Which, I remind you, also said we could not navigate La Traverse, or bring anything through that was bigger than a hundred tons.”
Like a rat he was, an ugly little white rat with pink eyes. God rot Cooke for ever showing them the way through that God-rotting channel, and Wolfe for being the first to support the notion. No telling him anything now. “There’s not a single battery on the whole of the south shore, General Wolfe. Not a gun. That has to mean that the French engineers believe—”
“I do not, sir, mean to conduct this campaign according to the beliefs of the French engineers. We will take Pointe-Lévis and bring up our guns.”
“A man, ma Mère, at the turn.” Angelique was at her most wide-eyed. “He demands to see whoever is ‘in charge in this place.’ I directed him to the chapel, but he refu
sed to go.”
“Yes, I expect that is so. He did not ask for me by name?” The governor-general had sent two emissaries in the past four days, and the marquis de Montcalm one. All three had been extremely respectful, however insistent.
“No, ma Mère, he asks only for a person with authority.”
Marie Rose was at her writing table, preparing a testament that was to be sent back to the founding monastery in Montargis once she and all her nuns were dead. Soeur Stephane might be the first, but surely they all faced the same fate. “Tell him he must come back tomorrow. I am too busy to come to the turn just now.”
Angelique did not leave. “I humbly beg, ma Mère …”
“Oui? What is it, child?”
“The man, ma Mère, his accent … I do not think he is like the others. I think perhaps he has been sent by …” Angelique’s voice dropped to a whisper. “General Wolfe, ma Mère. Possibly. I mean, I cannot—”
“Did you smell no brimstone, Soeur Angelique? Feel no heat of the devil’s fire?”
“On no, ma Mère. I do not mean—”
Marie Rose put down her quill. “Very well, ma Soeur, I will go to the turn.”
“I will come with you, ma Mère. I will bring holy water and—”
“I will confront the devil alone, Soeur Angelique. You may go back to your chores.”
The little Angelique was quite correct. The man spoke French badly, and with an English accent. So, a man sent by the General Wolfe? Not likely, but entirely possible. “Please, monsieur, I wish to be certain that I understand. If you would kindly repeat—”
Quent marshaled all his patience. “I am telling you, madame, that you and your nuns are in grave danger.”
“On whose authority do you say this, monsieur?”
“On the authority of common sense, madame.”
Marie Rose leaned her forehead against the wood of the turn. Only for a moment, and only because she was alone. It was imperative that none of her nuns know how weary she was. “Apparently common sense has become a much more common virtue since I have entered the cloister. You are the fourth person to tell me of our danger, monsieur.”
“Then why are you still here?”
“May I ask, monsieur, what business that is of yours?” A question only to gain time. While she considered. Could it be him? Yes, it was possible.
“I am concerned for you and the other nuns, madame.”
A stranger with an English accent who does not know how to address a nun. The very large redheaded man who brought Soeur Stephane that first day. “Are you perhaps most concerned for one of my nuns, monsieur? One in particular.” Holy Spirit, grant me wisdom and discernment. And let him not hear the pounding of my heart. “If that is so, I can assure you that we are all of one opinion.”
Jesus God Almighty. Was there no reasoning with the woman? “Madame, the English soldiers have taken Pointe-Lévis. They are now directly across from you. They are not of your religion, madame, and they will not respect your way of life. You must all leave this place. The Lower Town in particular is not safe.”
The redcoats had made up a ditty. They sang it all the time, made up verses to suit whatever bellicose mood took them:
And when we have done with the mortars and guns,
If you please, Madame Abbess, a word with your nuns.
Each soldier shall enter the convent in buff,
And then never fear, we will give them Hot Stuff!
Even Wolfe had laughed at this latest version.
“Madame, do you hear me? I truly think—”
“I think, monsieur, that you have put yourself in some peril to bring us this warning, and I am sure that God will reward you for your kindness. Now it is best if you go away.”
“And will you do the same, madame?” He stamped down his frustration with her obstinacy, not letting himself shout the words.
“No, monsieur, we will not. We have taken a vow to remain enclosed in this place. If we are to die here, then so be it.” Angelique and Françoise were both making a novena to petition for martyrdom. Joseph had started another. Her request was for quick martyrdom, without being tortured first. It was Stephane who said she was quite sure English soldiers would not torture nuns. All, Marie Rose thought, a matter of definition. “Good night to you, monsieur. I shall hold you in my prayers.”
“They have all but emptied the Lower Town of habitants,” Quent told Wolfe. “Your ammunition will be wasted, General.”
“Never that. Makes the men feel good to fire their guns. Besides, it’ll put the fear of God in the enemy. Still … You’re sure about the locals?”
Quent nodded. “Very sure.”
“You’ve been over there, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Bloody damn. I might have known. How did you manage it? The way you look, I should think you’d be easy to spot.”
“There are ways, General.”
No one would have thought much about an Indian standing in the alley, leaning into the turn conferring with the invisible nuns. The man with Huron face-markings and blacked hair, wearing a smock and breeches, would be assumed to be one of the Christian Indians from the Jesuit missions come to aid in the defense of Québec.
“Yes, of course,” Wolfe agreed. “Many ways I suppose for a man of your talents.” It was Hale who had convinced him to have the redcoats’ jackets made a bit freer and shorter, so they weren’t as restrictive. And putting the light infantry in those caps with the black cloth under the chin, that was an excellent idea. Kept the men a bit warmer when they were belly down on the ground. “Mr. Hale, I have been thinking. Why can’t our troops wear their knapsacks higher and fastened across their backs the way the Indians do? That would be an excellent accommodation, don’t you think?”
“Excellent, General Wolfe. Leaves both hands free.”
“Yes, my thought exactly. I shall issue the command. Mr. Hale, will you go again?”
“Sir?”
“To Québec, Hale. Will you go again on my behalf? See if you can tell us by what manner we can get up those damnable cliffs.”
Quent fixed him with his most intense stare. “If I find a way, I’ll tell you. But this idea of shelling the Lower Town, General, it’s really not—”
Wolfe had already turned away.
SATURDAY, JULY 12, 1759
POINTE-LÉVIS
Not yet dawn. Wolfe stood on the battlements, wrapped and muffled against the rain and the chill and the nagging ache in his lower belly, doing up the buttons of his breeches. Sweet Jesus, what wouldn’t he give for a proper piss, one without the burning. A lot. But not everything, by damn. Not Québec. I’ll have this prize if I have to stay here until November. And if there’s nothing left but rubble by the time I take it, well, that’s their choice.
He raised his hand. The grenadiers in their tall mitered caps ran forward and lit the charges, then dashed out of the line of fire. The bombardment of Québec began with a hail of cannonballs that fell into the river. The officers in charge of the shelling called out the adjustments to be made and the reloading began.
The goal was simply to have their ammunition reach the shore. Everyone assumed that even if the French engineers were wrong and General Wolfe was right and cannon could do damage from this distance, only the Lower Town would be in peril. When the gunners finally found their range, the first direct hit was at the very top of the escarpments, on the Collège des Jésuites. The men sent up a huge cheer, then broke into song.
Quent heard the boom of the cannon and the tumult of success from a distance. Since dawn he had been prowling the forest between the camp and the village of Beaumont, stopping every once in a while to whistle the call of the northern loon. There was no response. Even if one came he couldn’t be sure it would be Corm who’d appear. The woods were full of Indians, and Canadians who’d disguised themselves as Indians. The redcoats had taken to posting double pickets after a number of single sentries at the perimeter of their camps were found killed and scalpe
d.
In God’s name, what did they expect? Gentlemanly conduct, Wolfe said. Quent whistled again, and heard only silence. Wolfe said it was the scalping he couldn’t stomach. Death was to be expected in war, but mutilating the corpse … that wasn’t how gentlemen fought. Hell no, gentlemen did their damage from a distance. The chinless bastard bloody well knows he can’t take Québec by shelling it; he admits he’s only doing it to keep the men occupied. What about—Quent heard the faint scuffling sounds of moccasins touching the earth.
There was an enormous maple tree to his left, with a trunk too big for him to get his arms around. Quent ducked behind it and waited, tomahawk in hand. He had his long gun, but it was almost useless in these circumstances. The sound of a shot would bring hundreds of the enemy converging from every direction. A few more moments went by. Maybe he’d been wrong. No, he could hear it more clearly now. The steady drumming of running feet. Moments later a half dozen Abenaki went by in single file. They were heading away from the English camp, not toward it, so he felt no need to engage them. How come Lantak and his renegades hadn’t shown up and given him a chance to settle that old score? No sign of him so far, and probably not going to be. Outlaws like Lantak skulked about on the fringes of things. They weren’t likely to relish a dash of this magnitude.
Quent waited until the Abenaki were out of sight, then whistled the loon’s cry once more. There was still no answer.
THUNDER MOON, THE THIRD SUN
THE VILLAGE OF SINGING SNOW
Bishkek was staring at him, at least so it seemed to Corm. His manhood father was in a square box made of woven twigs. A log for his chin to rest on had been fixed across the open top. Bishkek was dead.
Every member of the village sat on blankets spread on the ground—squaws and small children in one place and men and boys in another, Bishkek’s burial box between them—and ate the feast of stewed corn and berries and bear fat. No one spoke. The only sounds were made by Shabnokis and her drum and her chanted prayers. “He is not here in this body,” she had told Corm when he arrived that morning. “His spirit has left this worn-out thing behind. But”—she had gestured to the air above their heads—“he is still here with us. He will not go to the next world for a time.”
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