Shadowbrook

by Swerling, Beverly

  “The silence, sir,” a young infantryman murmured.

  Wolfe crouched down to hear better. “Yes, what about it?”

  “It’s eerie, sir.”

  “You’re right, lad, it is. And they know we’re here now, so there’s no need for us to be so damnably quiet.” Wolfe stood up and summoned a runner and gave an order. Moments later the drums and the fifes began. And soon after, at the particular request of one of the Scots, he permitted the skirl of the pipes. A mournful sound to him, but nothing fired up the Highland regiments more effectively.

  “She has taken a musket ball in her upper thigh, ma Mère!” The surgeon was a young man from Trois Rivières. He had been visiting an aunt and uncle in Québec when the bombardment began, and remained to offer what help he could. “It would have gone much deeper except that of the musket ball passed through the water can and some of the velocity was lost.”

  “The thigh,” Mère Marie Rose repeated. “Must she then lose her leg?”

  Nicole gasped. “No, please!”

  Marie Rose bent toward her. “We did not believe you were conscious, ma petite.”

  Nicole didn’t answer. She was staring over the shoulder of the abbess. Quent stood in the shadows near the door, but she could still see him. He could not be in the Hôpital Général of Québec, so she had died and this was heaven. But surely in heaven she would not have so much pain. Purgatory, perhaps. How good of le bon Dieu to permit her the sight of her love in purgatory. “Hello, my darling Red Bear,” she murmured. “It gives me great joy to see you. Promise you will not let them remove my leg. I wish to go to heaven with both of them.” Then she closed her eyes.

  Mère Marie Rose put her hand on the forehead of the girl she had tried to make a sacrifice of praise for the glory of the Holy Faith and the winning of the Ohio Country. Soeur Stephane’s skin was burning hot.

  “The body struggles to fight the poison of the gunshot, Mother Abbess,” the surgeon murmured. “We must remove that poison before it defeats her. I will have to make the cut very high, near the hip.”

  “You cannot simply remove the musket ball?”

  “I would not dare. Her thighbone is shattered. Even after the ball is out, the poison will be left to do its damage. The whole leg will turn black and the poison will invade her entire body and she wül die.”

  “Very well. Do what you must.”

  “No.” Quent stepped toward the table where the surgeon was opening his case. There were three saws of different sizes fixed to the inside lid. “I’m sorry, but you heard her. It’s not what she wants.”

  “Monsieur, remember your promise.” Mère St. Claude the nun in charge of the hospital. It was she who’d said he could stay. “You gave me your word that you would not interfere, monsieur. You must understand that this young nun has given herself entirely to God in the person of her abbess. Mère Marie Rose will decide what is to be done.”

  Quent took another step, putting himself between the surgeon’s saws and Nicole, and addressed Mère Marie Rose. “There are ways to prevent the poisoning of the blood the surgeon speaks of. I can bring Nicole to the best herbalist alive, tomorrow or the next day, at the latest. You don’t know me and there’s no reason you should be—”

  “I do indeed know you, monsieur.” The abbess Rose had to tilt her head to look into his eyes. He was the tallest man she had ever seen. Stephane had called him her Red Bear. There could not be two. “I believe we have spoken before. At the turn, non?” Quent nodded. “You came to warn us we must leave our monastery. And as we both see, you were correct.”

  “I did not wish to seem arrogant, madame. Not then and not now, but—”

  She raised her hand. “We need not continue to argue, monsieur. It is the time of Soeur Stephane that we are wasting.” She turned to the surgeon. “You will remove the musket ball, nothing more. It will be as Soeur Stephane requested. If she is to go to heaven, she will arrive with both her legs.”

  “Not a shot,” Wolfe ordered. “Not until we can count the buttons on their jackets.” The line remained immobile. The pair of cannon that had been brought to the battlefield were fired repeatedly and did some damage. The Canadian sharpshooters and their Indian allies were also still active. In terms of the battle that would come, neither meant anything. Wolfe knew that. So did Montcalm.

  The French general rode up and down his lines, making adjustments, then changing things back. “Mon Général, how much longer?” one of his officers asked. Indeed, it was the only question. Action must come, however much he had tried to avoid it. The regulars were stoic, and would remain so. But the Canadians, the savages … he did not trust them to wait much longer. Reinforcements must be on the way—Vaudreuil had held back fifteen hundred troops—but how long would it take them to arrive? Two hours, possibly three? He murmured an evasive reply and moved on.

  There was a burst of fire from one of the English cannon, followed by another from the second. Four men fell together in a heap. Another was cut in two and his body fell in opposite directions. The corpses were dragged out of the way and the gaps in the lines filled, but Montcalm heard the undercurrent of unease. No that was not entirely correct, he felt it. He wheeled his horse around and faced the center of the line of Québec’s defenders. “Alors, mes enfants, la gloire et arrivée.” So much dread in his belly, still he did what he knew he must. He was a man of the military. It was his job. God help him, it was his destiny.

  Montcalm tugged lightly on the bridle of his horse and the animal turned once more to face front. He raised his sword, held it upright for as long as it took him to commend his soul and the souls of his men to the Holy Virgin, then pointed across the plain to the English. Instantly the regimental bearers unfurled their flags and the drummers beat the charge.

  The soldiers gave a tremendous cheer, releasing the terrible tension of the long wait, and took four rapid steps forward, more or less in unison. Montcalm looked right and left and breathed a sigh of relief. So far at least, the line held. And mon Dieu, the sun. At this moment it arrives. It is a sign.

  Wolfe, too, felt the sun’s warmth as it broke through the clouds. The plains were bathed in light. He could clearly see the French advance. “Lieutenant, bring the men to their feet!” A long wave of scarlet and tartan rippled into position along the open field.

  The French were close enough to see every detail of the enemy formation. The snipers from the hills had joined the charge as best they could. Montcalm still led, but he was conscious of the wavering line behind him. The regulars knew to go forward at parade ground pace; the militia followed their Canadian instincts and ran toward the enemy. In seconds the front lines were too far ahead and the left flank too far back, and some of the men had stumbled and fallen on the rough ground, increasing the havoc.

  Eh bien, nothing can now be changed. I have the army I have in the conditions that exist. Dictated by Wolfe, who has outgeneraled me. But I will not give the command to fire until we—A shot rang out from behind. A Canadian, it has to be. May God rot his soul in hell.

  As he feared, the gunshot was taken as a signal. A great volley followed, but they were still too far away to do any real damage. Montcalm saw a few English go down, but others took their places and those either side stood rigid. Sainte Vierge, what must we do to break their ranks? We must charge. It is the only hope. Montcalm turned his head to shout encouragement and saw that following their usual custom, having discharged their guns, the wretched Canadians had thrown themselves on the ground and were rolling to the side to give themselves time to reload. The men coming behind them now had another obstacle to trip over. He wheeled his horse around and plunged into the melee, shouting the orders that would bring his troops back into formation.

  Wolfe watched and counted off a full minute in slow, deliberate seconds. Then he gave the command that brought his lines three steps forward and slightly turned so they would present a smaller target. Another count, to twenty this time, but it felt like an eternity. Still the discipline of t
he redcoats was perfect. “Highlanders!” Wolfe shouted. “One knee!” The order was obeyed and passed down the line; the front rank knelt while the one behind it remained erect. “Prepare to fire!” Every musket was shouldered. The French still came toward them, shooting wildly now, but not a single English gun answered. Until, at last, when they could indeed count the brass buttons on the coats of the enemy, Wolfe shouted the command: “Fire!” In the middle the muskets were discharged simultaneously, their double balls cutting through the French lines in great bursts of skin and bone and sinew and showers of blood. On the right and left flank, where the command must be relayed because of distance, the English soldiers fired platoon by platoon. The result was a volley that seemed to go on and on, the death and chaos it caused neverending.

  Vaudreuil was at the north end of the plains, well out of the field of battle, in a calèche, still not convinced he should commit to this battle the fifteen hundred men he commanded. He saw the English line take another step forward. The screams of the dead and dying were too loud for him to hear the command to fire a second volley, but obviously it had come. Once more the redcoats in the front dropped to one knee and discharged their muskets while those behind fired over their heads. Involuntary the old man clasped his hands over his ears. He could not help it. The roar was like a gigantic cannon from hell. It was a madness, all of this. If the Canadians and the Indians had been allowed … Alors! Some small comfort. Wolfe was down, his officers clustered around him and dragging him out of the line of fire.

  Montcalm’s right flank broke, the Canadians running to take cover in the woods where they knew they would at least live to fight on, while screaming their Scots war cries and swinging their claymores, the Highlanders took off after them. A group of Canadian militia made a stand in the military bakery that stood just outside the city’s gates. Their bravery bought the fleeing French army enough time to reach the walls and take shelter in Québec, though every one of the Canadians paid with his life. And finally, the end. Half an hour after monsieur le marquis had pointed his sword at the enemy, the gates of the fortress city were again closed and locked. What was left of the army meant to defend New France was behind the walls. Montcalm was with them, still on his horse, but he had taken a musket ball to the gut on the field, and during the retreat English grapeshot had ripped open one of his legs. Alors. I think my life leaves with all this blood, mon Dieu. I shall be sorry never to see Candiac again. Or to taste the sugared almonds of Montargis.

  Wolfe had sustained two hits, one in the belly and one in the chest. He lay on the battlefield, his cape spread beneath him, covered in blood and breathing with difficulty. A soldier kneeling beside him could think of nothing to do except report the rout. “They run, General. My God, how they run!”

  “Who is running? Not our—”

  “It’s the French, sir. Everywhere. They’re all running away with our lads hot after them.”

  “God be praised. I die in peace.”

  Quent was made to wait in the garden while the surgery proceeded. He heard echoes of gunfire and the shouts of the crowds who stood on the ramparts watching the battle, but it was as if everything happened in a dream. Nicole was enduring the agony of the surgeon’s knife because she had taken a bullet meant for him. The sister in charge of the apothecary had brought wine, but nothing else to dull the pain. “Our laudanum, ma Mère, it is gone. I have looked everywhere for more, but—”

  “Do not disturb yourself,” the one they called Mère Marie Rose had said. “Soeur Stephane will offer her suffering to God.”

  Heaven help him, he’d never understand the way they thought.

  He looked up. The Poor Clare abbess was coming toward him. She had a black knitted shawl wrapped around her shoulders, but her feet were bare. He’d noticed when he saw Nicole struggling toward the kitchen with the water cans her feet were bare also. In Canada, at the onset of winter. Perhaps madness was a contagion.

  “She lives, monsieur,” Marie Rose told him. “Le bon Dieu has seen fit to leave her with us for a time.”

  “Can I see her?”

  “Not yet. She is sleeping. Soeur Celeste will remain with her, and the nursing sisters of the hospital will care for her. We are doing everything that can be done, monsieur.” The abbess turned her head in the direction of the battlefield. “You may go back to your war.”

  “I believe it is over, madame.” He’d heard no gunfire in some time. “So quickly,” Marie Rose whispered, then, looking at him: “I take it the French have lost?”

  “I think so. There’s a crowd watching from the tops of the walls. I’ve heard no cheers in some time.”

  She bit her lip. The gesture made her seem almost human. “I pray,” she said, “the river does not ran red with blood. I saw it that way, but perhaps I was mistaken.”

  Quent stared at her. “You and Corm and old Thoyanoguin.”

  “I am sorry, monsieur, I do not understand …”

  “Neither do I.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out Père Antoine’s beads.

  Marie Rose’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. “You are a Catholic, monsieur?”

  “No. They belonged to the priest called Père Antoine. He asked me to give them to you.”

  “Where is he? We have heard nothing for days and—”

  “He’s dead.”

  The abbess made the sign of the cross, but she did not seem surprised. Quent handed her the beads and she held them in one chapped and reddened hand. “We will pray for his soul. And yours, monsieur.”

  They did not allow him to see her until Tuesday, three days after the surgeon had done his work. When at last he was shown into her room, Nicole was propped up on many pillows, deathly pale, her face etched with lines of pain, but she was smiling. “Dear Abbess tells me you saved my life, Monsieur Hale. I would have bled to death if you hadn’t been there.”

  A young Poor Clare he hadn’t seen before was present, her head bent over some sewing. Probably didn’t understand a word of English. Damn, he didn’t care if she did. “That bullet was meant for me. As for saving your life, I didn’t do it so you could go back to calling me Monsieur Hale. I thought we’d put all that behind us long ago.” She blushed. It was wonderful to see the color in her cheeks.

  “This is Soeur Angelique,” Nicole said, switching to French. “My sisters have taken turns staying with me night and day.”

  “But I must leave you now.” Angelique looked doubtfully at the enormous man who seemed to occupy all the space in the tiny room. “Dear Abbess said I must come and tell her as soon as you were awake and Monsieur Hale had come. If you like, I can ask one of the Augustinian sisters to—”

  “Everyone is much too busy to be worried about me, Angelique. Besides, there is nothing to fear from Monsieur Hale. We are old friends.”

  Quent waited until the other woman had gone, then took a step closer to the bed. Nicole was wearing a gray robe and a black veil. “Do you wear these same clothes waking and sleeping?”

  “They look the same, but we have different sets for night and day.”

  Her right hand lay outside the coverlet. If he simply stretched out his fingers, he could touch it. “Nicole, I must tell you how I feel. I—”

  “No, please. Do not say anything from your heart. Not now when I am so weak.” She felt the tears coming but she did not have the strength to brush them away. “Tell me what has happened. Angelique says there was a battle and we lost.”

  “Yes. But—”

  “What of monsieur Ie marquis de Montcalm?”

  “He is dead. So’s Wolfe, the English general.”

  “And Québec?”

  “The terms of surrender were signed this morning. Nicole, we must—”

  Marie Rose came into the room. Soeur Celeste was with her. “I am glad to see you well enough to speak, ma petite, and I believe Monsieur Hale was about to say you must speak of the future. He is correct.” She went at once to the bedside and sketched the sign of the cross on Nicole’s forehead. �
��That you have survived so far is a miracle, my child, but if you are to live, we must send you away.”

  “But ma Mère, I am a nun. I have taken vows. Where can I—”

  “Your vows are due to be renewed in a matter of days. I shall not accept them.” Soeur Stephane apart from them, by herself with flowers in her hair. She had thought it meant the girl was to die. Perhaps it meant something eke. It was only necessary that she do what le bon Dieu willed. In that way it was she, Marie Rose, Abbess, who was the sacrifice of praise.

  Nicole stared at the woman into whose keeping she had placed her immortal soul. “Ma Mère, do you tell me that I am rejected? By you and by God? Do I not, after all, have a vocation to be a Poor Clare?”

  “I believe you had such a vocation, child. And that now it is over. Our Lord has himself told me this.”

  “But why does He not tell me?”

  The abbess smiled. “I think he does, ma petite. For the moment you are still my daughter, so you must tell me the truth. Are you happy to be with us?”

  “Yes, of course—” She broke off, then tried again. “I have felt that I was doing God’s will.”

  “And you shall be rewarded for that. But you have never been happy, child. The rest of us, we are joyful to be Poor Clares. There is no place we would rather be. But you …” The abbess glanced at the man she too now thought of as the Red Bear. He’d had the good sense to move a few steps away into the shadows and leave this business to her. “You, Soeur Marie Stephane who must now again be Mademoiselle Crane, you have always had a divided heart.”